My Apologies

The ducks of this weather

are stony. By afternoon

the lake disappears

like swans on the wing.

Someone kind

left apples and pecans

for winter’s varied thrush

and the orange of his belly

alarms me.

Finally I have allowed myself

solitude, only to find

it does not suit me.

I watch birds with ruffed

feathers and recall the white

of my thighs when

we made love by the river.

Of course I miss you.

Isn’t that my body

remembering my body?

Choices

By Tess Gallagher

 

I go to the mountain side

of the house to cut saplings,

and clear a view to snow

on the mountain. But when I look up,

saw in hand, I see a nest clutched in

the uppermost branches.

I don’t cut that one.

I don’t cut the others either.

Suddenly, in every tree,   

an unseen nest

where a mountain   

would be.