Ruth Foley
Podcast: Play in new window | Download | Embed
Suddenly, the leaves
cannot keep silent.
They snap like brittle
fingers under torture.
They slice the air
and leave it gasping,
open. At first, they say,
you are too surprised
to feel pain. I think
the air must be
like that today, stunned
into speechlessness
by the violent turning
of what once seemed
innocuous. And I know
where the cold snap gets
its name. The smallest
branches know it too,
as their leaves grow
unbearable with
the resistance of dead
weight. They cannot be
sheltered or shelter
anymore. They crack
against the ground,
and I am surprised
somehow to see
the way they refuse,
still, to shatter.
Ruth Foley lives in Massachusetts, where she teaches English for Wheaton College. Her recent work is appearing or forthcoming in River Styx, Measure, The Ghazal Page, and Umbrella. She also serves as Associate Poetry Editor for Cider Press Review.