Somewhere beyond the order of the sun
I would crouch sullen in the steppe wolf’s lair,
Gather the darkness into bloodlit eyes,
Tune raw sinews to a pitch of rage,
Howl incessant fury to the sky.

In the woods behind her house,
in a season where the world tilts most
from its ball of light,
upon her small part of Earth’s

rounded back —
naked oak branches covered in white: