by Ryleigh Wann
Mahogany board by swelling board
sits still on a hill between
yellow birch. The dogs down the road
sing to each other, while a dead calf
lays beside the pin. Black fur, lashes
half-closed on blacker eyes. I feel
like her, or like I once was her,
gentle and soft. The forgotten runt.
Poor thing. The birds might come.
Small cabin, cedar scent
in the fireplace gaze,
porch swing holds a polaroid,
steel strings, and a painted mug
of merlot. This is where
love will rise, in a crook
of a mountainside cabin,
the subtle breeze a lullaby
see it blaze
through the underbrush, how it glows
in the bleached sunlight.
Header image credit: Ryleigh Wann