Poetry by Nancy Kay Peterson
There is no word
for the weight of winter,
no number for the centuries
that press upon bone.
Alone in my father’s meadow,
drifted with moon-lit snow,
I count the Indian burial mounds
that lie at forest’s edge.
At 30 below,
everything is clarity,
the line of black trunk,
the curve of white land.
Everything is soundless
except my whispered leave-taking.
I make no promise
to come again.
Nancy Kay Peterson’s poetry has appeared in Dash Literary Journal, HerWords, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, RavensPerch, Steam Ticket, and Tipton Poetry Journal. From 2004-2009, she co-published Main Channel Voices: A Dam Fine Literary Magazine. She has two poetry chapbooks, Belated Remembrance (2010) and Selling the Family (2021). Visit www.nancykaypeterson.com.
