Winter Spirits

The sky is a sheet of ice dripping into a pail.

The cold is the embrace of my dead grandmother.

Her voice the call of the crows in the sleeping trees.

The black feather I found on the steps is her letter to me.

I am a voice with no song.


Down the path and up the hill are the remnants of a house.

The foundation outlines a square on the ground.

Stones cemented into the last of the chimney splits the wind in-two.

A hawk circles over the place.

The chalk-line collapsed.

The level unlevel.

I hum.


Linda Morgan Smith, USA

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