by Karen Schubert
I rest a moment, thinking how the light
comes through the pasture dry with flowers past
the windows over granite sills, at night
the bats return and shiver in. The last
child born here lived, our dead reside
across the lake under their stones.
The wren sits deep in flowers as a bride,
her basket swings in breezes, thistles sewn
to feed the finches, bluebirds eye the feral
cats. Deer prints crossing deep night snow,
to stand under an eagle riding thermals,
the day a stoat came loping on the road.
Near the empty mailbox’s rusted stain,
the lilac lies in bud; waits for rain.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 