Here, Where I Sleep,
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Our dogwood. Our magnolia. Neither will bloom until I wake. Between them: the same silver stream I hear only when I read wonder or write grief or pray to any forgotten god. The high rushing song of a thousand timorous birds who flee these low gray clouds. Always, the season: white winter: blue breath, your voice the falling snow covering me wholly—here, where I sleep. Then: morning, new sun—my waking body arched and wet. Blossoms everywhere. |
Benjamin Cutler is an award-winning poet and author of The Geese Who Might be Gods (Main Street Rag, 2019). His poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize numerous times and has appeared in Zone 3, Tar River Poetry, and EcoTheo Review, among others. Cutler teaches high-school English and creative writing in the Southern Appalachian Mountains of western North Carolina where he lives with his family and frequents the local rivers and trails.