Gail Braune Comorat – Three Poems


The Fox at Shipping Creek Farm

His image at the window
doesn’t startle us. He reflects
a certain calm, a curiosity.
Perhaps the amber light

of the house intrigued him.
Perhaps he’s come to listen
to our poems. He sits politely
on the other side of our world,

a wild prince with a steady gaze.
And beyond here, the river
continues its work in darkness,
just as this fox must soon move on

to do the work all foxes conduct:
the hunt for small creatures moving
silently, trusting in their safety.
We shuffle papers in a room

surrounded by land, sky, and water.
Sycamore and cedar. A rising
gibbous moon, an owl calling.
This is our brief haven

inhabited by deer, osprey, and
this glorious fox who now stirs
from his haunches, and shambles
toward the woods.

There’s just enough light
for us to notice his hobbled gait;
he is missing his left hind foot.
Still, he proceeds with purpose,

moves with all the majesty
his imperfection allows. And
inside this farmhouse, we slow
our own pace. Begin our praise
with dumbstruck awe.

Why Eve Dreams in Red

Because red is the color of my first blood.
Of danger and power. Hunger.
The color of Adam’s lips after
he has tasted mine.

Because I wake every morning
to compliant indigo skies.
Because I am sick
of incessant emerald. Jade. This garden.

Because in dreams I split open landscapes
with desire. I am overwhelmed
by brown: the tawny beige and umber
of the sparrows, the hawk’s sienna.

Because fur-bellied moths
drum against my ear when I dream
and the air is thornless and spiced
with cinnabar and mercury and sings full-throated

because in dreams I clothe myself in
crimson scarlet cerise carnelian
I want
things I cannot have and cannot know

because in dreams there is no liminal world
no need for expiation
my hand never trembles
when I reach for red

and Adam is the one
whose teeth pierce
the fruit’s flushed skin
he is the one
who reveals the flesh beneath
the white flesh the bone white flesh


Taproots grow twisted, brittle and deep.
The stalks, hollow as bird bones.
Grandmother’s edible, bitter greens.
After the bloom—feathery heads, perfectly
proportioned—seeds strut from each crown,
shuttle-cocked to better ride the breeze.

Clustered tufts bend and fly scattershot
toward the wide and ready fields,
each gesture nonchalant and fruitful.
Like teams of white-skirted angels hell-bent
on a mission, they dance and dust the air
with helter-skelter knots of themselves.

All summer, the dutiful wind purses her lips
and blows the little heads bald.


Author’s Statement on Beauty

Beauty is what clutches your heart and comforts your soul. Beauty is unexpected and necessary. I find beauty in both the natural world and in things man-made. I’ve seen it in a lake reflecting autumn trees, a loon swimming through the reds and oranges. I’ve felt it in the vivid colors of a friend’s painting. Sometimes beauty is simply a slice of lemon meringue pie on a Delft blue plate or a dandelion growing in a field at Norris Campground.


Gail Braune Comorat is the author of Phases of the Moon (Finishing Line Press). Her work has appeared in Gargoyle, Grist, and The Widows’ Handbook. Her passions include camping and teaching prose writers to love poetry. She lives in Delaware where she’s a long-time member of several writing groups.