Thresholds
One last Carolina Wren
jabs and hops
inside a shrinking ring of pale sunlight.
At the white door of a cold season
the wind dresses a scarecrow
with the spiny feathers
of the already dead.
Ice scabs pockmark a creaking earth.
A green legend
sinks deeper with every sunset.
We walk in our pockets
hands clasping at the blood-heat
of secretive shadows.
Boots tread through the sludge.
of an ever-lowering sky.
Ice pinholes vision,
one eye remains veiled,
the other
turns like a lighthouse.
Thresholds slip away
unreached.
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