the leaves fall from the trees and I find that my shoes
won’t come off. I go out to get the newspaper, feel the chill on my face and
I don’t know where I am. Overheard, birds forge ahead with such determination that
I feel inspired to follow them south.
traffic snarls at me as I stumble after the birds, newspaper clutched
in my hand, bathrobe barely knotted closed. I would tell them
if they’d only roll down their windows and turn off their noisy car heaters
that I have learned something new this morning, that
there is no reason to stay here in a place that will soon be covered with snow, that we
can follow the paths laid out by buffalo and deer to safety, that
being able to sleep beneath the stars in the middle of December
without fear of frostbite or death
is worth losing all the ridiculous things our real lives have to offer.
Holly Day has taught writing classes at the
in Loft Literary Center , since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Tampa Review, Minneapolis, Minnesota SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her newest nonfiction book, Tattoos FAQ, is coming out from Backbeat Books at the end of 2017.