Refuge
I’ll tell you this: I am the only part of winter left.
It beckoned and I followed, past all reason,
followed it like the end of a broken train
through white woods, and I stayed, with simple tools,
set on trying to construct more of a season. It has taken
all of me to do it, and you would not believe the storms.
You would not believe how I sleep. From here anything
would sound like a cry. Everything looks like pieces of God.
Credit
Copyright © 2018 Jill Osier. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in The Southern Review (Winter 2018).
Author
Jill Osier
Jill Osier’s chapbook from won the Poetry Society of America’s 2017 Alice Fay Di Castagnola Award.
Date Published
05/21/2018