In Winter -

a flute, played on the edge

a flute, played on the edge 
of a snow-covered marsh,
will be heard forever. 
The red haired boy
who pushed his breath 
though a silver reed, letting his talent
spill into the brilliant night,
will move back to the city come spring.

The man who carved ravens
onto a ring for you, will die
in a cabin fire across the lake.
The old  storykeeper from uptown
will lie down in a snowbank one night
on his way home from the pub,
arms wide, face to the northern lights,
he'll be found that way in the morning.

In this kind of cold your eyebrows turn white
and you think about the tiny hairs
in your lungs, or you think about the boy 
in just his socks and plaid felt shirt
making magic on the ice. How he 
loosed his clear tones across the frozen bracken,
how they flickered in the moonlight like white feathers 
on the belly of a high arctic loon.

This poem was first published in Desert Moon Review 2005. It was more recently published in Call Me {Brackets} 2023.