The Dis/Quiet Of Exile Poem by Birgit Bunzel Linder

Cedar Creek,5: 07am
The first snow in northern reserves
Weighs our fall into lone confinement.
A left boot suffocates at 5: 40am.
A white glowworm plague
Invades the long vacant house.

This silence, the disquiet of exile.

Into the icy breath of abandon,
The phone rings shrill, at 5: 43am.
In the hollow emptiness,
It swells in waves toward the window,
Sequesters through the glass,
And sinks into the snow like the moon
Sinks into the paling hills.
Twelve times, until the connection is cut.

Then the songs of the trees sink, too,
And follow the trails of the fox
Until the calm bows heavy again
Like the long forgotten apple tree
Carrying fruit of stone.

I wake up and search for your hand,
I find it still warm with your own dreams.