Snow clothes the trees, their arms hold the forest.
I climb bridges of branch carcasses. Wood resting
awaits when billbugs and larva awake in their nests.
Holly limbs burst in a berry flush.
Your eggs have all cracked, streaming viscous and hushed.
Mother, I’ve lost the path—
trunk patterns changed in last spring’s seedling rush.
Where the hill seeps away from the roots of an oak
I’ll hide from the wolves in the cheek of my cloak.
Catherine Zickgraf’s main jobs are to hang out with her family and write poetry. Her work has appeared in theJournal of the American Medical Association, Pank,Victorian Violet Press and The Grief Diaries. Her recent chapbook,Soul Full of Eye, is published through Aldrich Press.