Early morning — and no
electricity. In
darkness, I place tinder
in the grate, light it, blow
softly till the small sticks
brighten. No Telemann,
this morning. No Mozart.
No news I would rather
not know. Though I believe
we're given discomfort,
so we can understand
others' discomfort, I
will catch up soon enough
to things I cannot change.
Wind rattles the windows,
makes me aware of my
breath ascending the lungs'
chambers, descending them.
Respire. Inspire. Spirit.
By the back door, my two
dogs, asleep, breathe in their
uneven unison.
They know more than I do:
to look for this stillness
with the same trust they have
to look for joy. Each day
they try to teach me how
to listen hard, knowing,
beyond the windows, I
might hear the snow exhale.
Heather Hallberg Yanda teaches in the English Department at Alfred University, in the hills of upstate New York. She has poems published in such journals as Galway Review, Raven’s Perch, and Clackamas Literary Review. Late Summer’s Origami, her first collection, was published by Ashland Poetry Press in 2020; she is looking for a publisher for her most recent collection, What the Stones Borrowed.