The Fieldstone Review


I have walked until
water, fire, shelter

a brushpile of birch
and tamarack

scents of pitch, river
and earth are left.

Day drains.
I kindle the fire.

Limbs creak and spit.
Water eats the grey cliffs.

Stars arrive to pollinate
the darkness.

I gather driftwood;
each stick is a solitude.

I hold in my hand
a wave-rubbed stone

and wait for silence
to polish me.