Little I through the hills,

the daisies moving beside me. I watch

the cows low the fields, shuffle


their horns, tongue one another

clean. A sun-gap bleaches the details,

each face ink-bled—full blank—whole


caves spilling light. I reach

the barn, my dress flutters the wind;

grandmother said Once, they found a child


here—the head wound

where blood slipped out turned white

as newborn bone. I stay


though nothing—the barn

arctic quiet, old pails empty

of milk—but opulence


hanging from the eaves, the sun

sliding over the floor

clean doors of light.


A plum tree shivers in the glade—



the air holds vigil while the plums

ripen. Once more

a thing unfinished


grows in the wood. It’s winter

again. A fawn mouths the air

                        for mother, nuzzles its twin.


The dead keep crawling

                        to the river, tremble deep

into the current. Dawn


thick awaits something new,

loosens the sky; the plum

            tree goes on praying. I—deep asleep


inside myself as ever

a child wombed in the dark—

my hand, blind


as dawn, gropes for a body,

cradles a face.


The morning is born again—



starlings pale into distant

blue. A rabbit’s ear pivots


toward the thicket, each bud

a little clock unbeckoned. Sun


sends deep its thaw, splinters

a frozen pond. Light bends


into water; the ice melts,

gives everything back. A chick


emerges from its shell, opens

its beak, sings the verdant sky—


& I lullabied as if

the song plucked clean my bones.


Kristin Macintyre holds an MFA in poetry from Colorado State University in Fort Collins, Colorado. Her work has been published in, or is forthcoming from, Mud Season Review, Rathalla Review, Sugar House Review, and elsewhere. She is a 2019 Pushcart Prize nominee and serves as an associate editor at Colorado Review. When she is not writing, she teaches freshman composition and drinks coffee in her small garden.

Back to TIMBER 9.2