by Justin Runge
Drunk before Christmas, you turn into a debutante and dance under light snow. O little holiday.
Dull ax. The timber is more bludgeoned than anything. Our flue lacks carcinogens. Some splinters ignite though, and quickly, when mounded like meager forage. Like the mouse-scavenged.
Gusts flutter our shingles, peel back to the cuticle our clapboard.
Your wool sleeve clears the frosted window, forms a porthole from the verglas. Joined at the pane to catch any nocturnal flight, the cabin has us, its two chattering skeletons.
Spy a hillock stump. A glen of grama where bare wind-breaks chatter at the periphery.
A motet of weeping. The firn allows the sound to rush for miles to our door. You call it sacred. The field or moans.
I grip my package parting and pull. A ball-peen, nails of various gauges. Thank you.
Now yours. Tear the wrap. From the shape, an obvious sled, and you’ve just one hill. So your mind is made.