I know the winter trees share their secrets
with walls—stands of pine full of unfinished
cones, marred by distance or fog. The light
seems breathed out through their green.
I know the snowfall was sudden, diminished.
In the distance, a herd of silent mule deer starts
to listen: the stranded sound of the absent
grebe. They know the grass will grow stunted
for two more years. Once the light has been spent,
I want to know where it goes. What your face
has been bare of, since spring, I want to finally see.
Kimberly Kralowec is the author of The Saplings Think of Us as Young (Kelson Books 2023) and a chapbook, We retreat into the stillness of our own bones (Tolsun Books 2022). She was recently named a finalist in the River Styx International Poetry Contest. Find her at anapoetics.com.