Cradle
JENNIFER MOORE


The ornaments of winter are taken down 
one by one. My mother cutting back the pear tree;
late afternoon, tinsel on the fence.

At last, what feels like home.

We play make-believe in a measuring cup
while the chestnut opens its doors.

Close your eyes and count to ten. 
Brush your hair a hundred times.
I say yes. I have no questions. 

I’m almost ashamed at the things I love:

rabbits settling into grass,
the grass a willing cradle

and your hands, every now and then, 
folding into the shape of a bird.


















JENNIFER MOORE was born and raised in Seattle. She is the author of The Veronica Maneuver (University of Akron Press, 2015), and her poems have appeared in Crazyhorse, DIAGRAM, Best New Poets, The Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. An associate professor of creative writing at Ohio Northern University, she lives in Bowling Green, Ohio.




THE ADIRONDACK REVIEW
COPYRIGHT © 2018
ISSN: 1533 2063
FALL 2018