Wolves

by Anne Britting Oleson

From beyond the window, cold glass--
their cries are what wakes you.
Right now, high up on the ridgeline,
but coming ever closer:
the howls of the desolate.

The wolves glide outside in the night.
In your mind’s eye you can see them,
even be them, pacing
around the sleeping house.

Their howls are desolate.
They are ghosts, all,
peering in at you,
with eyes burning red
from fury, tears--your eyes.

Around the sleeping house,
prowling, howling, inviting--
and all that separates you,
as you move from unquiet bed
to window, is this cold glass--

reflecting fury, tears, your eyes--
which, as you press your palm to it,
open your throat to join
the wild song, melts away
and you fall to all fours
gliding outside to the night.

Night Music In the Garage

by Anne Britting Oleson

The moment when the engine
and the lights cut out,
the moment that leaves us
only the love song in shades of blue
strung out in the closeness of the car,
in the depths of night:

and I hear small children’s voices
singing out of tune counterpoint
to BB King from the rear seat,
much like a chorus of spring peepers
in a pond lately liberated
from the winter imprisonment of icy silence.
I sit still to listen, straining in the dark
toward a song I wish them to sing
always, come rain or shine,

and when, at last, the guitar
rises away and outward, past
us, past the half-full paint cans,
the shovels and rakes, the barrel
full of returnable bottles, out
through the roof into a night of clear skies,
I still make no move
to unbuckle the seat belt, open
the door, leave behind the echoes
of this moment which still
glows like stars raining down.

Blizzard

by Anne Britting Oleson

White out. A mistake
in the master plan
covered up with a blurry sheet,
made nothing, as though
it had never happened.

Sheltered from the worst,
you huddle behind windows;
for though the snow has no success
as it clacks against the panes,
the howling of wind is enough
to freeze your marrow.