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.