February When the Maiden Goes Away
She rides the bear’s back, whose fur
smells musky as her grandfather’s beard,
feels warm as grandmother’s calico embrace.
The bear chuffs as it runs. Its claws,
long as bent roof beam nails,
splay out over the rimed white dunes.
They travel over the winter-scape,
lonely and lunar, with craters and minute
ice particles stinging her cheeks.
She looks up into the sky.
The clouds are puzzle pieces
she will someday fit together.
Lucy Simpson, 1/2012, revised 2-22-2013