A MIDWINTER MOVE NORTHWEST, BY MARIA MCLEOD
Birds hide, the sky goes blank, gray
slate, a milky chalkboard. We erase
what was, start over, immigrants
rewriting ourselves in an icy rain,
which falls continuous, drowning
the noise our pasts produce.
Conifers crowd our vision, pin
the sky in place, shielding us
from a looming fog.
The future is a seedling, just now
hitting ground. It arrives dazed
and out of season, hoping to take hold
of the earth, to inhabit one small crevice
of what, to our eyes, appears infinite.
Maria McLeod writes and publishes poetry, fiction, and monologues. Honors include three Pushcart Prize nominations, the Indiana Review Poetry Prize, and the Robert J. DeMott Short Prose Prize. She’s been published in literary journals such as Puerto Del Sol, Painted Bride Quarterly, Harpoon Review, Critical Quarterly, The Interpreter’s House, Crab Orchard Review, The Brooklyn Rail, and others. McLeod is a professor of journalism for Western Washington University. Originally from the Detroit area, she currently resides in Bellingham, Washington.