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.

“””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””