You wind and unwind the day
on spools of restlessness.
Sleep, that old dog you love,
nose fogging cold glass.
When you let him in,
he shivers off flakes of moonlight, 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
too 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 table 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.
Tonight the moon
is a circle painted on black silk,
a silver charm I could cut out
and pin on my shirt for good luck.
As it nests in an oak’s crooked elbow,
I reach up my hand to grasp it.
Shadows sift through my fingers.
I cannot touch it,
but my skin sings a song of light.
® 2018 Jean Sampson // Web design by Skafte Design