what upright shadow in the forest speaks to me now in fogging whispers
what small smothering animal shivers beneath the tree’s icy bole
what terrible words does it tell itself of memory, of grudge, of recovery, and revenge
what time is it in the forest
when all creatures wait for the other to give way to sound
to reveal their hearts, first by beat, then by steaming sheen of blood on snow
who watches for us, in this coloring colorless noonday dim of Winter’s lingering perch
who will strike and show our skin to the world and declare
“All See! Know the Bareness of your Fallen master!”
There’s nothing to do but wait, hold still, breathe not at all, dream not too deep
and craft the warm words of next season,
a final never found reason
to continue bleeding inside, in circles, in situ
