Chanterelles, Portabellas, and Morels

The very first day the ice left the lake,
two loons appeared on the wind-awakened water
as she walked the rocky shore.
Within herself, she felt ice
still encasing her soul-
or if not her soul, at least the place
her soul should be.
Weeks later, at the farmer's market on the square,
she held the enchanted horn of a giant morel,
thought of her husband that morning in bed,
remembered how the severed arms of the apple trees
bled.
At the kitchen window above the sink,
she cuts the stems from a box of chanterelles
while watching the backyard birds-
the plump mourning doves, always in pairs,
the peacock iridescence of the grackles
when they catch the sun.
Having known the lift of wings,
she feels her arms nearly useless things.
She takes a star anise pod from the sill,
the seeds still perfect in their astral case,
remembers how starfish littered the beach at Hatteras,
the red sands of Malpeque Bay with northern lights
quivering aloft.

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