Something you said stuck a sliver in my mind
"resignation to the desolate white"
right?
I walked down the farm road
and the memory stung
as I looked in a puddle reflecting infinity
and the old cottonwood
tumbled up with bony, blindly searching tendrils
and wet fog dove into dry skin
and rubbed out the treeline like a charcoal drawing.
Then later, it appeared in the frame of a teary eye,
hung in the last laugh of midnight,
draped over my cold sleeping back.
I know there is more.
