As slow as the breathing

of the ancient giant

long said to sleep beneath

our town’s tallest hill,

snow piled up that week

against the edge

of pine needled forest floor,

then fell back like a cold ocean tide.

We kissed hidden by evergreen dusk.

Strands of your hair caught

on the trunk you leaned against.

Pine tar stuck to our bare hands for days

and we gathered the world’s dust and ash

from everything we touched.

Lee Potts is a poet with work in several journals including Rust + Moth,Ghost City Review, 8 Poems, UCity Review, and Sugar House Review. He is a contributing editor for poetry at Barren Magazine. He lives just outside of Philadelphia with his wife and the last kid still at home. You can find him on Twitter @LeePottsPoet and online at

Banner Image: “Quelle” by Robert Frede Kenter @frede_kenter