winter sticks


click wet in the mauve woods, sparse now
as the lichens over the fallen log are numerous
and green, doggedly bright, having seized
the last remnants of color and turned them
to a hemmed glittering at the edges of things—

as the wind going out of the forest’s edges turns quiet
its sound now just a friction of its own skin and its own skin
over the meadow, and the branches silent behind it, now gold
and now russet, tasseled in the brittle wet tines the winter offers
a filter for the winter air, once hissing, still cold—

we are each a small night for one or a few, having not wanted

we are an absence of resistance for a moment while the sound

tumbles through the cold air in a shell of its hardness
the grass’ prickled frost bristling beneath it, 
white and green, whited green, and the brown mud emerging where it melted
the sound settling on the ground like a soft low fog
its light feet touching soundless, as it pleases.