K. ALMA PETERSON

Begins the Season of Regret

*
You were dressed
in fragments, spoke rags.
Of course I meant to
write a lovely sleeve
for your entirety.

*
In high winds
the grown tree
remembers a half-healed
break and its split limb
wakes to tell me.

*
White-tailed accusations
whistle past—
a wide wake of feathers
unsettles.

*
My field guide
is beyond report,
her cape a small flag waving.
Still I cock my tongue
and fire.