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While driving through the countryside in winter,
down roads where land is farms, not neighborhoods,
I’ll catch a whiff of woodsmoke hanging faint
along a fencerow,
scan the field to see
a chimney in the distance spilling out
slow-motion ghosts to haunt the porch and trees,
remember the ash that used to tint
my shoes and coat the stand of figurines
above the mantel.
That simmering hiss
and a pop of hickory slabs that fell through grates
into a pan it was my job to dump.
That silent walk in pitch black February,
the path I couldn’t see
but trusted toward,
no trace of me but breath I sensed inside.
Volume 39, no. 2, 2011