Rusty, shuffling locomotive winter.
Killing cold mousing through cracks.
Snow smudged gray by end of day,
night starless as mine shafts.
Powdery coal-dust blown beneath doors,
settling in attics, baby beds.
Stovepipe blushing red before sleep.
Dreamt all winter of blackberries,
shivering windows icing overnight.
That spring my sister died.
Never went berry-picking again.
David Gross lives in the 'greater Appalachian' hills of southern Illinois. His most recent chapbook is Little Egypt (Flutter Press, 2017). He has recent work in, Algebra of Owls (U.K.), Lilliput Review, tiny words, and Wild Plum.