As the girl mirrors her mother, each hardwood in the forest
reaches to catch the winter, then lets it go before it bends
out of form. The woman ties her hair out of her way. The girl 
wonders why bother keeping it long if anger is all it brings 
but knows better than to ask anything. The iron slides 
across the board until all curl is gone, obedient as it should be. 
Heavy for its wire, the mirror must be adjusted time 
to time because it leans to one side, especially after someone 
shuts a door too hard. Who designed the mirror so there’s room 
for only one face at a time? The girl watches the woods 
on the horizon where deer root in snow for acorns, 
the path of her breath across the glass. How can any creature 
live when all the mouths that exhale from the leaves are gone? 
But they do, no other living soul for miles around.