Smoke halo. One light burning. No wind.
This still wilderness so soundless I can hear
my insecurities settling deep in my some-
places. My questions opening like blossoms
in the moon. Fireflies off the lake, one spider
camping in the circle of its work. A white-
throated sparrow, alone, calls as if for an answer.
Its voice an invisible thread. I have no answers
to give to her. Nothing moves. Not even
the water. I try to be still and wait for something
to happen. Nothing does. Maybe this can be
something: to be still, waiting. I breathe in
and out. This is a small wonder. I have so many
questions. I have so many blossoms. The trees
continue to stand, tall stoics.
The light still burns. I burn.
Brett Elizabeth Jenkins lives and writes in Minneapolis. Look for her work in The Sun, AGNI, Beloit Poetry Journal, Mid-American Review, and elsewhere.
Moon illustration by C.B. Auder.
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