IN THE WOODS
Your delicate wingmarks
tell how days are made,
until the last one vanishes
into shadowy weather.
Your hair embroiders
the wind with kind words
and yesterday’s promises
hang by a thread
under the dark fist of a spider.
I touch the branches of a tree
like the keys of a piano,
arousing the leaves
into a green dance
in the palm of your hand.
As my words unlock
the letters of your name,
we eclipse
between folded hands
unable to hold
the dream we
keep reaching for.