Early Frost
By Jacqueline West


To the first dead,
graves whiten. Steely threads

hone the edge, slitting
swathes of wind.

Climbing northward,
footfalls melt the frost;

flowers of salt darken,
wilt into dew.

Despite what they say,
the dust never settles.

It falls in cities,
constellations,

mouths, rivers;
into the names

we have forgotten.
Our time is short.

A list flutters off
before a great cold,

windows slamming,
doors locked:

small emergencies.
Beneath ice, a stream

folds uncounted ripples.
Too long, too lasting.

How we are spared.

Jacqueline West's work has appeared in journals including St. Ann's Review, Inkwell Journal, flashquake, Briar Cliff Review, Barnwood, and The Pedestal Magazine.  She has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.  More about her work can be found at www.jacquelinewest.net.

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