“Many forms in water may also be found in clouds
In the turning season, your one clay divided from hers. Like swans, riding a tourniquet of wind. Winter’s aureole, cleft before a fallen oak whose breath
is your only explanation. Whose path yields the cabin doorway, hard of hand on burnished leaves. And whose water gathers from the pump, the dark maker.
Glued to a world your senses decided, as when millions of years earlier the silence of nature broke.”
Subterranean Blue Poetry