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The Yield

Cold to the Christmas bluster,

which I believed “all bloated commerce,”

I morning-gazed not half-awake

out the low distorting window panes

scarcely secured in the rotting casements

of this old Sears catalog bungalow.

I was careless of the scene I watched.

It spoke, I thought, a dreary death—

aloft, monotonous cottony white,

below, twig-littered lifeless brown—

before the impending pinch,

a snow-portentous silent stillness

in a maddeningly quiescent landscape.

A thumb of silvery fur ensnared

my visual stupor: it was a mouse

scooting across the perilous ground

that lay between the rustic lean-tos

of brittle nut-brown maple leaves.

Image-gripped, but how to name it,

this will to live in little things?

Upon such monumental nerve

we build and break our wage.

Wholly unaware of me with cup

of tepid tea, well-fed antagonist

needled toward wonderment

by the pertinacious gathering

of this tiny attic resident, who,

apropos my fancy, went about

his fretful setting up of store

while seeming to mutter under

his breath, “a big storm’s coming!”

He was right. Come midnight

and the ribboned pine wreaths

hung upon the wooden doors,

this artless morning theater

was dressed foot-high in drifts

of blue-tinged starlit snow.

from ClampdownFind more by Jennifer Moxley at the library

Copyright © Jennifer Moxley
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Published in Jennifer Moxley 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.

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