13 Jan 2006


My teacher's gone to willing woods; smoke enters what was air before. All winter I have fastened on this snow that covers prior warmth and flowers. She would not have seemed a shadow. She was moth and early in the night, becoming an earth angel. Supplication might chance slumber where it was not safe. I pray that she is water, too. I pray the supple ounces of a muscled loft. Her voice would take a swath of atmosphere and change what had been possible. Conceive of how night figures into birthing light. She airs a simple phrase, and several places have been chafed by sense of sight.

1 comment:

Lewis LaCook said...

mmm mmmm good