Night spreads in all directions
away from the nearly full moon
and if I close my eyes and wait
a breeze passes over dead leaves
and wakens
my mother’s voice, my father’s silence—
cigarettes and coffee—like air
passing over mounds of tangy-dry leaves.
My dead rise near as dark
spills out to fill even the horizon.
Tim Snyder, originally from Rochester, New York, lives with his wife in a small house on a narrow road with a dog and six cats in Northwestern Ohio. He divvies up his time working on his house, teaching composition, and interpreting for Deaf folks in his adoptive home state. He has published his poetry in journals such as The Poet’s Billow, Heartwood Literary Magazine, and Albatross.