Poems by Warren Woessner
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Canoes In January
by Warren Woessner
Warren has spent most of his literary life in the upper Mississippi and Minnesota River Valleys, once Ojibwe and Dakota land, where there is no shortage of winter.
Tipped over, summer and fall
spilled out, winter
moved into aluminum
long houses,
for Dakota ghosts.
Hulls still point
at the lake
like compass needles
point at true loss.
Previously published in Exit ~ Sky (Holy Cow! Press)
© Warren Woessner
Fulcrum
by Warren Woessner
The edge of the sun
is a warm orange disk
pushing through a web
of bare branches.
For a moment, I can look
right at it, and turn
and find the rabbit
in the still-bright moon
setting in the west.
It is the exact day
of the middle of winter.
I am the high priest,
checking the alignment
of the altar and the two stones,
feeling the earth tilt
toward the light.
Right then and there,
I know new life will arise—
water will flow, crops
will grow; I know
I’ll be right again.
Previously published in Clear All the Rest of the Way (Backwaters Press)
© Warren Woessner
Midwinter
by Warren Woessner
At 4:45 the sun edges
through a loose nest
of branches, sets
behind a snowbank,
slipping out early
after its brief appearance
in today. But it still dazzles,
like a pearl set in diamonds
on the white breast of a girl
at a charity bazaar. Pretty,
but with a forced smile,
she leans in close,
gets me to take
one more chance
on spring.
Previously published in Clear All the Rest of the Way (Backwaters Press)
© Warren Woessner
Prairie Grass – February
by Warren Woessner
Almost touching the snowbanks,
the thin stalks are bent down
like old women walking home
from a country market, empty
early. They are holding
just a handful of seeds—
shopping baskets full of wind.
Previously published in Exit ~ Sky (Holy Cow! Press)
© Warren Woessner