PROSE POETRY
CERIDWEN HALL
AFTER THANKSGIVING
The magnolia threatens to bud. Then our breath appears, and frost, like a ghost summoned late to the feast. I keep mistaking firmament for earth, for something other than the blue ache of sky. The moon is almost full and very near, and, in the morning, I worry about losing everyone I love—some to death, some to happiness. Meanwhile, we tidy the aftermath, and I decline the offer of a plus-one, but fail to explain how living alone is living intimate with weather. You free the dogs to howl. A single crow arrows across the dawn, not cawing, silent, intent—and I want to believe we understand one another. But family is a strange dance: again and again, the wind tugs fallen leaves into a low spiral, carries them somewhere new.
Ceridwen Hall is a poet and educator. She is the author of Acoustic Shadows (Broadstone Books) and two chapbooks: Automotive (Finishing Line Press), fields drawn from subtle arrows (Co-winner of the 2022 Midwest Chapbook Award). Find her at www.ceridwenhall.com.