Closing the Cabin for the Winter
Outside, thistles stiffly sway,
cottonwood leaves scatter
like golden valentines.

The wind has piled larch
needles into windrows, driven
us inside these too tight walls.

In the waning light,
the distant tan moraine
looks warm, soft, inviting.

We hiked there yesterday,
silence whistling between us,
picking our separate ways through

the thin veneer, where beneath dying
grass it’s all sharp rocks and grit
embedded in slick silt.

I know deception, that moment
of doubt, grasping
for a holdfast, knowing

there is scant purchase
in the slippery accretion
of our eroding years,

knowing just one false step,
one moment spoken without care,
will send us sloping apart.

Tonight, snow will blow in, flocking
the mountain peaks. You say
We’ll need to leave early, to beat the storm.

Tomorrow, it will once again
be time to sweep, shutter,
carry out cold ashes.

Stopping Outside
Your reading light is on—
luminescence seeps from
the window catching

bare black branches
& illuminated droplets
tremble then plummet

into my darkness—
outside your corona
the shining lamplight

casts an amber halo
& cradles your bent head
inside —a bright disk

framed by deep shadow
& I stand like a director
shrouded— you in my spotlight

& the focus attracts—
bats flicker frames
on the pane between us

like the old film projectors —
& like a moth
I am drawn to the lure

of your honeyed light
& the darkness
at your edge

Last Rites
Crushed plants under the ladder legs.
Rungs to the sky opening, sky closing.

Alto cumulus undulatus. Amen. Climb hand over hand,
leave terra below, the bleeding heart broken underfoot.

Are you stepping onto the rungs? Clenching
cold mettle in your hands?

Remember this. The last step
is hardest, as if you didn’t know.

Don’t look down. It will only make you
dizzy, even more lost. The irreparable gaping rifts yawn below.

Loosen your grip —– breathe —– count to three —– exhale
the way we were taught to fight our insomnia.

Keep your silent sleep-walker prayers. All you’ve ever
known —–  just dust in a fractured sky.

Pull closer to the ocular. Limbs tremble. The spangled
fritillary sings goodbye as you step into the nimbus.

***

Learn more about Patricia Farrell by clicking on their bio:  https://thievingmagpie.org/patricia-farrell-bio/