On the Night of the First Snow, Thinking about Tennessee
Charles Wright
It’s dark now, the horses have had their half-apple,
mist and rain,
Horses down in the meadow, just a few degrees above snow.
I stand in front of the propane stove, warming my legs.
If the door were open, I’d listen to creek water
And think I heard voices from long ago,
distinct, and calling me home.
The past becomes such a mirror—we’re in it, and then we’re not.
The Virginia Quarterly Review