Illness

When a windstorm
blasts in from the north
with a sudden
and desperate rage,
even the cottonwoods bow
to the white sheets of rain.

Behind the single
silver-green leaf
plastered to the glass
of the patio door, you can see
the awful flailing
of the trees flying apart
like someone drowning.

When all you can do
is keep your heart
close to the hurt,
you keep it close.

*

Like It Was

Yesterday, a finch
flutter-flapped from the barn
like the sound of a horse
clearing its nose.
I could smell the sweet
sweat smell of the horse
coming around the corner.
Hear ripe grass ripping
into crunch and chew,
snort and stomp,
swish swish toss of tail.
Sometimes the old life
passes over this way, smooth
and warm like a neck,
like a velvet nose
lipping my hair.

*

Jenna Wysong Filbrun is the author of the poetry collection, Away (Finishing Line Press, 2023). Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and have appeared in publications such as The Dewdrop, Gyroscope Review, Wild Roof Journal, and others. Find her on Instagram @jwfilbrun.