The mind in morn­ing

Prairie Fire - - EMILY SKOV- NIELSEN -

rouses from white, warm sheets, sure not to wake the body be­fore

tip­toe­ing out to the freshly cut cold, con­fer­ring with the Crim­son

Frost birches hud­dled at the fence like thin, sad teenage girls—

gath­ers early morn­ing pa­pers and milk-fog rem­i­nis­cence of waking

dreams, while all this time mea­sur­ing the curves that Crim­son Frost

are slow but thank­ful to show in their ten­ta­tive sway, this way,

and that, bend­ing into barely-there de­vi­a­tions, come hither

math­e­mat­ics elud­ing quan­tifi­ca­tion in the rise and pour

of morn­ing over the new snow-smooth yard, be­fore

the fi­nal curl back into the mem­o­rized folds of a body,

cal­cu­lated, now stir­ring in the bare-all light of a bedroom—

the mind leans into it, slip­ping out of solip­sism like a silk robe.

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