no swath of light,
no smell of warm
wood shavings. A
rain-coming scent.
Last leaf in wind.
Walnuts on the deck
bleeding ebony. I
think of houses of
ice where there is
no light, of men
carving snow birds,
seals, caribou,
dream lamas as geese
fly up, a cloud of
feathers skidding to
the corn that floats
on the skin of water
the color of light
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
