there is a tree narrow

enough for a wood.

to reap a snow around

indefinition.

the trunk of Her ankle.

holed-up white, with

wind and cessation.

incontrovertible water.

though it appears so.

white.

as impressions shorten their form,

an owl leaves daylight suddenly.

flattening its wings over an Ocean,

all-ways light.

alighting at your window, one

motion free from stillness.

so You can hear the sound contradicted

by the customariness of nothing fathomed.

there's something that worries over

an owl that resurrects daylight on a

crooked limb.

the speed of acceptance deemed late.

the owl was there once...

leaving out everything.

And would you know it?

an owl's downcurved beak smiled

back...reappearing.

falling down lifelessly over branches

that redrew the most vehement disappearances.

when the land has locked its jaw,

and starving recesses fight to get

loose, only the wind breaks free.

blowing away from what froze it

clear, watching January choose a

place to die alone.

rumbling in the pits of wolves'

stomachs, shadowing and shadowed

by the place January chose to die alone.

their darkening magic severe enough

to cast out what it casts--driven on all

fours through trackless acts of disappearance.

the trees see nothing of this, coldly burning

at their own stakes, having been stripped bare...

their congregations sway from time to time.

the fall and the spread of nothing, clear from

the throats of wolves...rising.

a sickly yellow arena, with last-leg effulgence

comes around to their howls, and hangs there

as the pithy of survival.

there's a cold in the

grey outside, perspectively

sectioned off.

its breathy paint keeps

running down and

across frozen surfaces.

there's a window to it,

which drifts--oddly enough

to become two dimensionally

sequestered in walls.