Pilgrim

The roof reflected
Off the pond is young.
The girl is unsure of its
Snow-harness straps,
How well they will hold.

In the first house
She presses keys like
Small quartz directives,
Affirmative palms ticking
Towards a well-stacked
Woodpile while

In the other house,
Tangent glaze to a second
Bluing sun,
She gasps through river tannins
In impossible cold.

She fits slimly
Between the mountain
And its lock. She hangs
Among the reins
In the house in the ravine.

Her bare veins are surprised
By her own active hands,
The piano’s gentle bark,
Thirty pine grosbeaks
Come to feed.