print previewback CHELSEA WOODARD
The Cardinal
i.m. Claudia Emerson
Today is cold and so bright
I have to squint at the high drifts, the light
purple-tinged, nearly unbearable as I walk
back to classes, seeing tree trunks chalked
with smudging, soft lines of fresh snow.
This year is tired and old, and I know
time only as the step between dark and sleep,
the stinging breath I hold through the quick sweep
of sun brushing my face. I look through the glass:
bare bushes, the dull birds who pass
through the frame and are gone. This time
is like each time before. Through the grime
and plow sludge, the powder sky, he appears
on the branch: crimson, fluttering, clear.
My husband thinks I’ve imagined him, that no bird
like this comes here—but I’ve heard
him sing through dim afternoons, know
he flies mildly, lighting the winter, goes
where we can’t follow. 