CHILL WIND


The chill wind dies on
The tongue of each leaf,
Wild things mean no harm.
I sit on a limb of oak,
My body exploring
The tree’s secrets.
Snow falls from the clouds in
Tiny cries, each flake
Introducing itself to my skin.

You are close by, watching.
When I try to move toward you,
Branches embrace me.

You rise like a pool of
Startled moths and
Settle in my hair.
The moon descends,
Her dark caves carry us away.