This snow, its sovereignty

& migration—

I would braid it into my hair.

One new spine to tuck

under my pillow. How a prayer goes there.

Shift of light: make me whole again; brimmed over

with dark.

I don’t believe we can’t see

in the pitch. When I close

my eyes it’s the red stream: guidelight.


The spruce died with its radiance

intact, needles reflecting for days after.

The man who cut it down to protest an industry

never became a landscape bleeding light

and I put the book down

without either of my arms breaking.