by Emma Wynn
The trees lie down
on the snow
like tattoos on an arm,
their upright shadows
gone
against the sky.
On the porch, in the wind,
no longer grasping
the rail, you open
your hands –
the moon’s pale fire
whitens in each palm.
Emma Wynn received her M.T.S. from Harvard Divinity School and teaches Philosophy & Religion and LGBTQ U.S. History at a boarding school in rural Connecticut. Her poetry has appeared Sky Island Journal (which nominated her poem for a Pushcart Prize), Prime Number Magazine, West Trade Review, and peculiar magazine, among others.