by Karen Kelsay
She calls when apple boughs are light
in frost and arch with weight of ruby-clustered
globes. When aspens rise like candles
tipped in gold, each glimmering on autumn’s
fading hills. I hear her muted winter words.
They chill the maple into hues of red and chant
of northern lights and falling stars. My pear
tree drops its fruit, a magpie tucks
her wing, and every silver birch begins
to lose its crown. All nature chants for snow
while I turn like the tamarack along the ridge,
whose naked branches long for summer sky.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 