In Range
︎︎︎ Joseph Massey
︎ Apr 11, 2026
A spasm of wind
rattles the pines.
Cold drizzle
needles my face.
Here, where spring
begins to tilt
before spilling out.
Before mud unbuckles
into bloom.
Along the path,
lichen-crusted trunks
waver gray
to shades of cyan
in the rain.
While walking,
I catch myself
a step ahead
of my body
as if I might glide
away from my flesh
and merge with mist
and incense
of leaf litter
moldering
in dark gullies.
Holy,
this threshold time
when the living
stumble, still rising,
half-awake.
rattles the pines.
Cold drizzle
needles my face.
Here, where spring
begins to tilt
before spilling out.
Before mud unbuckles
into bloom.
Along the path,
lichen-crusted trunks
waver gray
to shades of cyan
in the rain.
While walking,
I catch myself
a step ahead
of my body
as if I might glide
away from my flesh
and merge with mist
and incense
of leaf litter
moldering
in dark gullies.
Holy,
this threshold time
when the living
stumble, still rising,
half-awake.
Joseph Massey is the author of Decades: Selected Poems, and he publishes a newsletter, Dispatches from the Basement. He lives in Upstate New York.
Also by Joseph: The Second Day of Lent
Also by Joseph: The Second Day of Lent