A Calendar Year
by A. Susannah Fairfield

The white, moth-chewed blanket
crawling alive over the boothills
is that snow? A rebirthed calendar,
ten years from now; and ago,
the dates will sprawl or rot
under the leaves of a dusty summer.
Scrapbooks for time and place memory
crumpled twenty dollar bills
under the mattress in a sock.
There is no end to the falling
goose-feathered snowflakes, not
pending month or moon or daylength.
Pressure is dropping, quickly as
isotatic mountains and the horizon
slipping serpentlike. It does not care
for my wastebasket or its contents
the clipped photographs, orange peels,
least of all the last year's timepiece
and the impressionistic paintings
adorning months like labels.

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A Calendar Year by A. Susannah Fairfield

A Calendar Year
by A. Susannah Fairfield