The dead seed pods of smooth sumac in winter
click their wings against thin grey branches.
A scissortail hides high in a sycamore—
only now I see three nests like a single frame
waiting to be filled. Every tendril in wind creaks
for what will come: the flower, the verdant bud.
I could not waste this life, given like flame
every spring. Sunlight deepens and lightens
the blue, though the moon wanes in my body.
Fungi vibrate in the ground. A bird pecks at snow
evaporating in wind from the south.
My beloved January is sleeping. My beloved
January, where is your soft nothing?
I am afraid. I haven't the will for wakefulness.
Damien Uriah grew up on the Oklahoma side of the Ozark mountains. He currently lives in Spokane, where he writes, studies, and teaches literature. In addition to being a poet, Damien is a stone-mason, gardener, and musician. Some of his work is published or forthcoming in Heron Tree, Hawaii Pacific Review, About Place Journal, and Three Line Poetry, as well as others.
