Cold Light
The tree ensnares sky
In its clutches, unforgiving
Branches a loose tapestry
That I linger within
Soundless as soil, quivering as thread
Time unspools on the leaves
An overflow that shudders
Each one curved as a heart
And bared, open, brutal
In its discernment
Will you grasp the sky I gift you?
The clouds that caper
A mimic of seafoam on a sinuous wave
Will you gasp as I plumb your leafy innards?
My thumbprints stuck in your sap
This, an amber souvenir
Smelling of past, far-flung moments
That suspends me
Limbs arched like ribs
Until even the clouds disappear
The lines of our tree
Are my veins, thick
And filled with cold light
I grow my trunk and keep your circles close
You would have it no other way.
Briane Willis is a new fiction writer and longtime poet. Her poetry was published in the literary magazine Persona where she also served as a poetry reader. She has an M.S. in environmental studies and interpretation and a B.S. in geography. Her passions include unstructured nature play and garden-based learning. She lives in Central Texas with her husband and young child.
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