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Barbara Daniels
To Luck

A fox jogs brazenly toward me,
lean belly swaying, then
steps into purple brush,
quietly parting the leaves.

I can’t understand why I miss
the nights I was most afraid,
the gaps where shadows
lay down beside deeper shadows.

Sunlight slips over surfaces, not
valediction, just a slow coming
to terms. A spider waits,
long legs, body a black dime.

To luck, I say, now that I know
what bad luck brings. Bits
of light dip and weave, cast
by water like flawed green jade.

Fleeting color washes the water.
A goldfinch alights in chicory.
The river flows toward ice again
through the idea of summer.