This snow, its sovereignty
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
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.