A Woman’s Song Where the gust peels back, the autumn’s bitter toll is gained. Smoke wisps intricate as lack, fire-warmth in trees count this toss, like breath — birdsong lingers, in the coolness of gathered belongings, where twilight is the preface, for wildness to both envelop the moon, and carry night up step-like pastures, whiskered of dreams and colors ripe, a woman raises softly, harmony before her to dance the woods.

• Mina Loy