I know an old lady

old as the pines

she rises in moonglow

to wait for the dawn

shuffling through snow

the crooked mailbox

is empty.

I know an old lady who

sweeps her words into baskets

then sets them alight

sends her smoking critique

to the Lord on High

(you could have done better.)

I know an old lady who

swallowed the moon.

Her belly glowed green like a firefly,

and when she spoke

moonbeams poured through her teeth

like torches at midnight.