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Hold Me

When we gather black feathers

from the nest of the crow

to stuff the head of the scarecrow full, it is not some

obscure form of cannibalism

but a comment on how

fear resides between our ears.

When the days begin to grow

shorter and mornings crisp as apples, I turn into a bear.

I do not yet know whether this is transformation

or revelation.

In the meantime, hold me


because I’m open as a window

and the storm is rousing the trees.

from Poetry Northwest 12.1 Summer & Fall 2017More by Michael Bazzett from the library

Copyright © Michael Bazzett
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.

Published in Michael Bazzett Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.