Because the snowdrift beat the window,
I visit the storm in my tennis shoes.
I coast along road ice, night-drunk.
Low pregnant cumuli suck and spit
I walk the decommissioned train bridge,
its rusted iron carapace blinking every star.
Squeak the wooden ties,
delight the half-gushing icy river
with my dance. No,
that sobbing and laughing
is not from me.
Kiss the snow field,
the numb, frostbitten.
the smoky, triangulated arch
of bridge in the dark.
If I were depressed—
why do I spend my days
winding up these autumn trails
in search of treetops that blow down
the wind through their hair?
why climb the muddy rope
of path through underbrush, decayed
to where, mid-distance,
the pink fire of burning bush sprouts?
By Heather Sager
- Heather Sager’s poetry appears in Mantis, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, West Texas Literary Review, and other journals. Heather also writes short fiction. She grew up in rural Minnesota and lives in Illinois.