Leveler Poetry Journal
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How I Am Doing Now


I have fallen into a silence, not a hole or a well,

but rather a wideness rimmed with rose and tinkling trees

in shivering gowns of sun-sliced ice. Beyond sight

all dips into a deep dell, fog-draped, dank.


Sometimes coyotes jog through the night

in their uneven coats of winter and frost,

but mostly herds of does materialize quietly,

grazing in the soft morning fogs.


At times, I stand at cliff’s edge,

sheer rock, broken and jutting, above,

stubborn bare-footed trees clinging by toes

to the jumble below, while quick as a corner-eyed


ghost, the bald eagle floats above and away.

Later, I’ll say I saw him, but who can be sure?

Who knows the coyotes, except as a silver disturbance

under moon, the dog on the hill in hysterics?


When I awaken, the wideness remains,

a grim possibility in the pre-dawn gray,

opening under the cloud-scuttled sky,

a fathoms-long lid, indeterminate.

Mary Ann Honaker