drop, and suddenly bird nests high in treetops appear
throughout the elegant map of stripped-down branches.
mountains in the distance drift closer like cautious leviathans.
dangle like fat ropes: this is the naked season.
We see the scaffolding on which everything else relies.
the dull color of dirt, granite and slate. Leafless tree limbs
like glass-blown gloves. Beneath our feet, winter grips
I am the real thing. This is the naked season. Winter will
brittle snakeskin rattling softly in the tangled web of brush,
of a small creature coiled like a bracelet. And now the bones
last year’s weary skin flayed to shreds. What’s left of us turns
everything feels revealed. The lost, the ugly, the sheltered,
than memory and prophecy, tunnel on through the dark.
--Deborah A. Miranda, 12/31/2020