rows of owls roost in their hair
secretly, I know that the trees are artists
they paint the air with fluttering brushes
scalloped and veiny
fingers so slowly tracing the clouds
who swing close to dust
in sprawls of fog and rain fairies
bless this ground
aspen and pine soak in it
tiny mouths rooted in the dew
mud and puddles
windows into the sky
where the roses' souls catch
napes and necks
in amber
melted petals