Signs

The marsh is hushed by snow.
Toads sleep deep
beneath rustle of wind in parchment grass,
creaking of bare branches,
dark chortling of crows.

The lake beyond is frozen.
Pale haze of sun glints low on
bright orange hoods of men who
drill ice fishing holes
and wait,
their breath rising to heaven.

Daybreak, the morning that you died
a doe stepped from the woods to watch
your window.
I thought your suffering kept you
from seeing
but when she turned to leave
you soon followed.

This morning I stand
and wait,
still as a dormant oak
at the edge of the mute marsh.
Numb and cleansed by cold
I need this holy silence like a penance,
like a practice,
like a daughter needs a mother
and when in the windswept drifts I see
the slender tracks of deer—
delicate cloven hooves split neatly
as two halves of a whole—
I try to follow them
only to find
they always lead to where
I cannot go.

Jody Murad Curley is a Madison native, Tai Chi Ch’uan teacher, wordsmith, and lover of family, friends and the natural world.