Born with the memory of the first spark
we grow to points of fractured glass.
We must now let go of distractions
like leaves blowing in a storm, the snow
wrapping us in dainty white crystals.
We must return to our first love, the complete self
unified in the blizzard, enveloped by its
The path never changes— if we find ourselves
When we become separated from the self
we lose our memory of roots, drift in the wind,
buried in snow on the back hill
we can barely see out the frosted panes,
the windows rattling and the drifts piling higher.
By morning half the fence will be buried,
the ground shaped into mounds—
we will be lost then.
Yet the deep snowy fields, the wind and leaves
are just masks to hide behind
like smoke from a burning slash pile
drifting under frozen oaks.
We are the children of this cold moment
remembering the first breath of wind slapped into us.
About Emily Strauss
Emily Strauss has an M.A. in English, but is self-taught in poetry, which she has written since college. Over 450 of her poems appear in a wide variety of online venues and in anthologies, in the U.S. and abroad. She is a Best of the Net and twice a Pushcart nominee. The natural world of the American West is generally her framework; she also considers the narratives of people and places around her. She is a retired teacher living in Oregon.