At the Edge of Winter
(Mildred Andersson, 1823-1864)
Just now I heard the screech-owl
Shiver his scale
Down the darkness, and down my spine.
His voice was older than the snow
That scratches my window
While I lie remembering:
This morning in skimble-skamble wind
I gathered the sheets with their rind
Of ice, and cracked them in my arms;
In the barn the mothering goat
Rubbed her muzzle on my throat
And, suddenly, I was afraid.
Once more, curving to his need,
I have folded his bitter seed
Within my body,
This unknown country I call
Myself, where the new one
Kicks at my wall;
Hangs there, under my heart
With a weight
I cannot shake
Neither standing in the wastes of noon
Nor resting here, where a thin moon
Flowers in the icicles.
Hard awake;
Black
World grinding among the stars.
Hard awake, and dawn
Not come, I listen to the snow sift down:
I listen to the whole house breathing.