by Judith Ann Levison Issue: Fall 2015
It is the wind talking
Back and forth
I have not said a word

It is the seer of all torn
Leaves and holds my face
Up toward black branches
To see what I must see
Musty colors amidst rose red

I hear two voices murmur
And laugh from the nearby barn

For we held hands all our lives
And in the circle meant never
To let go until the last ash of us all
Refused to glow

Husband enters with my friend
The pot whistles as if a train
Will derail
Her red hair held up by butterfly
Pins is loosened

I take their cold hands
And the wind roars
I do not want to hear any more

Judith Ann Levison is of Micmac Indian descent, and was raised in a logger’s family on coastal Maine.  She holds degrees from Mount Holyoke College (BA), Hollins University (MFA), and Drexel University (MSLIS).  She was chosen as the first woman Poet Laureate in Bucks County, Pennsylvania.