“An icy mist…”
An icy mist,
no mountains this morning.
The world is a smaller circle.
Look closer:
ribbons of deer tracks
strung across the snow
and three brown apples
that never fell.
Your traps
all along the edges.
“Spring…”
Spring
in the subtlest colours of winter:
faint pink of maple,
gold tinge of birch,
yet spruce almost black
against the whitest greys.
We wake to a field mouse,
soft brown fur and clean white belly.
I could skin the whole family,
stitch pretty mittens.
Ed. note: This is supplementary material for this review in The Rover. Briscoe's collection is comprised of ten-line poems that go untitled -- except in the table of contents, where they are indicated with first lines between quotations.
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