In our dreams the moose
gets up and backs away and away and away, his leg
as it should be, his hulk
unbumped. The smell of cedar is also the shape of
cedar: and here now is a new
world order and the child can say a little longer what it is
she needs to wonder and still
there’s some summer left in which to connect a comet
to any single mammal sense.
And the lion will lie down with the lamb. And the bird
will roost in a human-
scented nest. And the loon lowers herself for her babies.
And now: August
with its great star events each night of which I have awoken
hungry and remembered
to walk out unblinking into the warm and vigorous night.
Sarah Wolfson’s poetry has appeared in Canadian and American literary journals including PRISM international, AGNI, CV2, Gulf Coast, and Mid-American Review and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She holds an MFA from the University of Michigan. Originally from Vermont, she now lives in Montreal.