the day before snow

A devil’s club graveyard all that remains,

bones of a mighty clubbed fortress

reduced to small brown skeletons,

silent, still scaffolds of what once was.

This is how you say madrugada in English–

the coldest, darkest, undead hour

when spirits roam the earth, right before

the first snow: 

the rainforest so dry and quiet

bones and shapes, negative space,

the air sucked right out.

This poem was first published at Plum Tree Tavern

Photo by Linford Miles on Unsplash