Vulpes vulpes, with your
little black nose,
your anxious eyes,
your den, under leaves
are ochre, burnt umber, and blowing away
in the air
of wet earth and maple smoke exhaled.
up to my fingertips, cool to the touch,
warm with a flame I cannot fan,
everything dying, like this.
But I’ll find you,
under the chestnut tree
wagging your tail,
© 2016 Jennifer Wagner
It seems I am too busy for poetry right now. But sometimes, she finds me.