In the trees, the noon
rose like an unmarked shadow,
bare and sullen.
A cat closed his eyes
for sleep. A cat slumbered in
the darkness of sun.
In the window, a
poet was imagining
a yellow kitchen.
Winter preferred the
night, the roaming winds, the sound
of ice cracking.
What day was it I
dreamt of the braeburns? All those
apples cold as frost.
A rose was growing
the color of ice, counting
its small, tender thoughts.
Your letters came like
September russets. Outside,
the branches rattled.
A lover waited
beneath a tree. The noon
still growing young.
Libby Goss has an MFA in poetry from Boston University and a BA in creative writing, marketing, and publishing from NYU. Her work has previously been published on Confluence (NYU Gallatin) and in the anthology If You’re Not Happy Now (Broadstone Books).
