Chill, silvered, shimmering
of roiling black,
Light reflects there, on the surface
flowing quick-silver, cold fire.
Leaves, branches wrench in the wind
with the sound of tearing paper.
Wait for it!
Sharp the sound –
a breaking bell of corvid-speak,
falls, blue, like crystal;
then breeze-stirred chimes
sound in the key of C,
throaty, biblical, sonorous.
The trees sigh.
the hunger of dreams in deep coiled sleep;
we lay as beneath a growing bank of snow,
buried soon, to the highest branches
of the black-green spruce limbs.
Spiderling threads of darkness,
small streams of ice in the veins.
Induced dreams of darker deep,
submerge and surrender.
If it’s dance, they want,
then may they dance,
leaves skipping in the black wind.
Dance they will, while crickets play
music, making instruments of their own limbs.
Darkness, longing, pages turning in
torrents of air.
Downy sleep under skies of night,
begun early in the day. When the
sightless eyes of aspen and book leaves of
catalpa rustle to the ground,
fallen skirts around the ankles of trees.
Restless dreams, children
in deep sleep – we twine and curl
ferns, longing at rest.