the sound startles me alert

here, north of everything,
all winter long, we sit beside the wood stove,
drinking cider, rubbing hands
to warm ourselves

here, north of everything
where seasons change their clothes
from red and yellow, then white to green,
where i have learned
that fall turns to winter,
and winter turns to spring

along the way,
rivers carved their names

sun low above the willow trees
that stand like tired ghosts

said we'd start again
this time closer
to the earth,
to the sky,
closer
to each other.

but
no matter
how hard
i run,
i cannot
find
the path

the doctor told my mother,
as if six letters,
a single word,
the sound of it being spoken,
could make it easier
to understand

clock creeps.
shadows shuffle.

dad used to say that time is short for play
and long for getting ready

just a whisper
carried to me on the wind,
her voice:
i can do it,
she says.
i know i can.

the air is alive