For
the past three days,
white wind and heavy drifts
have closed the road.
Besieged by ten below,
but there’s enough to eat
and the power has held.
Then a strange miracle rises
from beneath this rented house,
from beneath winter—
the green sound of tree frogs.
I work into the night
deciphering the offer—
an invitation for escape
down to their abode,
to clamber amid the rotting
foundation, to sit
in their muddy rooms,
anoint myself
at their mystical font,
take communion
of spider beetle moth,
to be for a moment
born again.
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