*

*

I did a handstand on the pine tree.

Below, the balsam wind swirled in spirals.

Winter’s slanted sun set the frost aflame

while I swished bare toes in the crisp sky.

Scent of laundry, pancakes, mud.

A nuthatch landed on my head,

tweaked a hair, his laughing eye.

*

At dusk, I will make a nest of rye straw

in the broken willow,

with the wedding ring quilt

and a down bolster.

Hear the stars ring out

between the gnarled branches,

wrapping me in soft solitude

above the house that clings.

So high, so high.