In my winter dreams
I look for seeds that have curled up in dry dark corners
caught there when the floods washed through.
I pull away the broken limbs and detritus that collect
and watch the seeds that float to the surface
~
Like mirrors end to end
they shift and turn
reflecting the barbed light of other suns.
Birthing memories.
The only heat sometimes is in memory
passing through the heat of the wound.
~
I wake from these dreams disconnected
I have instinctively stretched out in time.
~
Deep in the night
no birds singing yet
waiting for light.
“””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””
The Poetics of Light 