Still

This is what it is
to be still.

Steamclouds exhale
from raggedback ridges—
sheer scarp of ice
shouldering through cloud.
And every crown of leaves lit
by candles plucked from the sun.

My grandma is here
in these cedars
elbowing into the yard
to remind me—
Night is coming.
Tend the fire, the animals.
Call a friend.

Wind voices here
don’t so much howl
as growl, so low—
you think it’s your ears,
doing a bad seashell.
But you know, as you fall
down the tumble of forest
to the lake—all

                              is listening.

—from the collection The Charlatans of Paradise