Poetry by David Filer

Dedicated to The Imani Project

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Winter Burning

There is no breeze.  Persistent

fog seals the fine edge

between earth and heaven.  A ship

plies the channel, headed

out to sea, its horn

marking the passage, mile by mile.


Now when it blows,

it's west, below the island,

and moving out

of range.  Otherwise,

no sound, except the snap

and flutter of the fire


I've been tending

all afternoon—now in darkness,

a mound of amber coals—

and the light, dry

rattle of the few maple leaves

left in early December,


their signal faint

in the growing cold,

and above, where the fire's

sparks rise and dim,

the call of tundra swans

navigating home.


(published by Spring Hill Raven)


—David Filer