Where I Live

By Twyla M. Hansen

Before daybreak, you may find me bundled
against wind, following the tracks of paws
on a crust of snow past the seesaw, trunks,
past the stalks of tall sumac, past the swings,
and the playhouse to the pile where I fling

bread crusts, egg shells, left–over triangles
of pizza, feed the hunger of creatures
when night falls — fox, raccoon, opossum — or
in sun, stray deer and things with feathers, spring
dreams below the horizon.

You may find
me gazing skyward in navy air at
clusters of stars, the planets, and, with luck,
the crisp lemon–slice moon, breathing damp air,
winter heaving from under fallen leaves.

And at daybreak you may find me looking
out to children who no longer play here,
who dwell elsewhere.

I smile now at the flame
of those shadows, watch instead for red–tails
on bare limbs, running Vs of geese over
the meadow, praise the goddess of beauty
who taught me to love this place where I live.