Trigger Poem by Ken Craft
Trigger
This is where I held
my breath--
a stand of red pine,
needles and snowdust
scribed about my boot,
cold crescent
resisting a swollen
finger itchy-numb
with November.
This is where a buck
held its breath--
mouth mid-meal
amid the mast,
a single line
of berry drool
spiking the fur
of his white and
wild-cherried chin.
Friday, July 31, 2026
Topic(s) of this poem: november,hunting
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
This poem, designed to appeal to reader interpretation, is about a first-time hunter's decision..
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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8/6/2026 6:14:04 PM # rel_20260806T081513Z_580e7f4
