Caroline Maun
Before the Freeze
The garden has grown wild—
tangles of trumpet vine and morning glory,
Sweet William spilling over the edges.
In the raised beds,
elephant-ear weeds fan out,
a flagrant trespass.
Heirloom tomatoes,
fruit now split at the seams,
swollen from summer rains.
Let the beds remain—
a winter haven
for whatever has lain eggs there.
The Open Field
Before the medicine
he lost the path—
familiar streets turned foreign,
the way to a friend’s house
unraveled as he drove.
The replenishment a miracle
a return
as if the body now remembers,
one dosage at a time,
what it means to be itself.
He finds his way home.
He sits at the piano
playing songs
that were always there
even when darkness fell.
We can still see the mouth of the cave,
but for now,
we have camped out
in an open field.
Tonal Language
This is about the crackling—
nerves sparking,
signaling either danger or delight,
depending on their story.
This is about my dog’s black eyes,
fixed on me, urgent,
because the bastard squirrel
is back on the fence,
taunting him.
His vocabulary is anticipation,
boredom, satisfaction—
a language of pitch and breath.
This is about the wind—
how zero degrees is bearable
if it stays still.
Stillness means shelter.
This is about knowing
an inch and a half of snow
will melt and refreeze,
turn into treachery.
This is about the candle,
pine-scented, alive, saying
warm nest, safe body.
Steam heat and radiators give
the house voice and breath.
