i.

the quiet of the meadows
as wildflower listens to the
babbling stream,
stones washed by the silvery
water,
the sun pressing the land into ghosts.

ii.

dusk sags like a balloon
remembers a darkening sky.

iii.

it has grown late,
poetry quivers on the
windowsill,
taps nonchalantly at the door.

iv.

the clouds turn emptiness into dreams
like morning frocks billowing on a line,

the moon walks over
sings of darkness and blue smoke,

the cold starts to sink into
the crevices, conjures its ice
like brittle honeycomb.

v.

tomorrow waits like
a hungry child,
she eats our fingers
and our hands
and we let her
for we can’t bear for her to go hungry
as she carries everything of us
forward with a little push.