While you sleep,
cicada songs rise and fall,
a crow flies in
from north-northeast,
calling as it goes,
redwood’s sweetness
kisses the air,
a harbor breeze brings drinks
of bruised roses and salt,
and eddies of leaves
and white butterflies
shadow-dance a casual piece
called
This Is How Ash Trees Rustle.
While you sleep,
the winds tie heat on
like sails,
and running high aloft
shred fire
into pale haze,
softening
boundaries between
here and there.
© Heather Quinn 18 Aug 2009 (edited 8 Jan 2010), all rights reserved
