Ominous clatter from the shed door
threads pockets of silence, dry as sticks
gathered from the dead plum. It’s primal, how more
of this bang – pause – bang slowly constricts
feeling. Reduced to a trunk with no limbs,
just heart, I can sense the wind dive and lift.
I long to join it, tear the door from its hinge
and keen like a coyote — loose and adrift
in the night air. But that won’t do. Instead
of this wild dream I’ll recheck each latch,
tidy the kitchen once again and catch
myself holding a book I’ve already read.
How can this wind leave us so unchanged?
In here nothing but ourselves, outside the rain.
Dagne Forrest lives and works in a small town just west of Canada’s capital. Spacetime, nature, and the smallest details in life provide her with jumping off points and inspiration. As a poet, she’s particularly intrigued by playing with form. Her work has been published in K’in Literary Journal and Prime Number Magazine.