November

POETRY

by Athena Kildegaard

Wind tore my skirt off the line
and now, so late, I have no hope
of finding it. Moon’s waning,
padding of clouds, a density
in the world. Fires where there
should not be. And yet I feel
a morsel of hope, a tenderness
toward the world. Perhaps it was
the doe who crossed the gravel
before our brights, her head bowed
toward grain spilled yesterday,
the day before, I’ve lost track.
She stepped with such assurance
into the harrowed field.