From Towards the Forest

Wolves Drawn Toward The Sound Of Bells


At a minimum there is snow,
smooth as the heel of a woman’s hand.

Then the snake trails
of the sleigh, marking a passage.

I wonder, were there stars?
And if any fell.

Or was it one of those dawns
when the clouds of breath

are so stunning and pale
you can’t look up into heaven

because the problem of beauty
is too immense, the air growing solid,

as the dew of your lungs is spun
into an iridescent web,

clinging to the light,
so fragile as it disappears;

you must turn back
toward each other, wanting

only to feel the damp fleece near your cheeks,
the familiar hand holding your own.

It is still night after all and all around
the sleigh, the dark ring of the woods.


©2007 Holaday Mason