the wind darkens
within my listening —
longest night


icy veins . . .
the wind parts a way
to the deep north


winter storm —
the sound of one colour
blowing still


late spring . . .
a bull snuffs out
the flowers


breathless dawn —
a mosaic of leaves
lighten up

dawn breaks out
in tongues of fire . . .
frosted earth


after dusk
in a muskrat's wake
primal slime


swaying reed —
the flutemaker reads
a closed book

the sound of grapes
being crushed

all at sea
a lone pigeon maps
the way home


wintry night —
streetlights overlap
shapes of me