You wind and unwind the day on spools of restlessness.
Sleep, that old dog you love, whimpers outside, nose fogging cold glass.
When you let him in, he shivers off flakes of moonlight and shadow,
snuggles next to you as you lie down again.
You are outside alone,
lifted from your bed by dark wings.
Around you trees conspire to reclaim what has been stolen.
They call out, a sound like feathers drawn across harp strings.
Your oak door pops from its hinges,
roots and sprouts branches in response.
Your cherry tables and chairs do the same,
then wait for dawn to bring birds.
The trees ask you to take off your shoes,
dig your toes deep into the earth,
shred the sky into streamers of light with your leafy fingers.
© Jean Sampson
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| Trees reflected in water Photo by Tony Russell |
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