The Deep Season

Good-bye to lavish mercies. Green and lush,
the harmless scam
lies exposed by little deaths—a blush,
a fissured dam,
some mild dismay. Diminishment. The hush
of who I am.

First snow has not yet fallen, and the sun
is stinging bright,
demanding discipline, as one by one,
my once airtight
beloved arguments have come undone,

I see the forest. I can see each tree,
the blackened ground,
the field behind, the space inside of me
that makes no sound,
yet aches for what I’m not, but need to be—
lost. Then found.

by Catherine Chandler