Flying over — the crow, the shadow, the flair of snow

beyond blue, across gray and down the road to the river

the deer runs, the house hums, the fractured weather

is no one’s fault, just a fault line that quivers as though

sky bound, but wind tells the doubter all is earthbound.

Even on the highest snowbank a print is made

the lightest tap of junco the swift brush of hawk’s wing

all grounded to the deep silence of morning

moving beyond the shudder of night’s nothingness.

There’s no rising up to heaven or joining the winter moon,

simply a reflection of the earthbound pressed in snow

as the dead grow stones with their dust, as we mark

and make an outline of our story always wishing to fly.

Mary Wehner

Mary Wehner writes from the shore of Lake Winnebago. She is also a visual artist and leans towards nature and the abstract in her work.  She has published in journals across the states and has won several poetry prizes. She has recently had a poetry collection published as well as a letterpress chapbook.

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