country living
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Home is the smell of a linen closet,
with its never ending array of
canvased colors consisting of
extra bedding for the unexpected
sleepovers.
Home is the bruised hardwood floors
Through the frosty window, in crisp air
and a silent sea of white
I see the tiptoe of a fox, bright as a burning ember
My breath snatched, I stare—
dark eyes
Then I see the mounds, scattered—
Consider the fog that settles beneath me The underneaths of the narrow bridges
They trap the mist around my skin The breeze cools me as it feathers throughout the air
