by Joely Fitch
Night: fog rolling in
again, misty violet clinging
to the quiet
limbs of pines. Moons do pull
on everything, even now,
which is at least part of the reason
I’m awake here with you
in this forest— its lacquered, gentle
silence. Warmth buried deep
within the frozen ground.
As for myth, I’ve spun you one
(although I didn’t mean to)
from the strands of my own
hair. Please— take this golden
thread and let it lead you to the bridge crossing
the creek that runs between us.
So we stand on it.
We look at one another
saying nothing; we don’t even touch
and still all this snow that’s been dusting
over everything for years
and years and years begins to melt.
Joely Fitch was born in Ohio in 1993, and is currently an MFA candidate at the University of Idaho and the associate poetry editor for Fugue. Her work exists: online at The Shore, and forthcoming from Dilettante Army.