Journal of Writing & Environment

Any minute winter will break

again, the way each day begins:

sun revises shadow, clouds

revise the sky, and rains revise

the roadside dust from Boston

to Chicago, where once I found

myself, tire-flapped trucks lifting

mist, tempted to backtrack

and find the first drop, the instant

blacktop went dry to wet, when

East became Midwest, but twilight

had arrived. Another time

hesitant, knees buckled, rope

burned fingers and I swung free

from the tree, watched water rush so

clean but failed to see the moment

rise became fall. Every song

fades into the next. Passing

minutes begin to unravel

now a season I cannot name,

each word I have a wintered

breath that vanishes even

before I hear who speaks.