by Jnana Hodson

wet snow piles up
on telephone wires

portions break off
to reveal Morse Code
black dashes and dots

the snow recedes
into stave rows
of cornstalk stubs

a rhythm
along white sentences

asking, so where’s this zigzag life
where’s it headed, anyway

“I can’t tell when you’re happy
or just being polite,” she imparts

our firewood’s burning hot
and clean –
the chimney radiates

nothing by the doorstop indicates
what triggers the fern
to unfurl in season
when the boots come off

I’ve never been an easy riser

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Copyright 2015