Trees like fox-fur brushes
red red red
and impossibly soft.
This mountain is sleeping,
Even the bears are swallowed up
Tucked into their rock wombs
Harmless as boulders

But winter is coming and
There is sand in my oyster-heart
Far from the salt spray, shut up tight
Like an old window stuck in its sill.

Man fell in love with the winter
The empty season, he understands.
Pale like blood drained from his face.

But my lungs taste the dust of leaves
Breathe the dim gold light.
I am folding beneath the earth
Red inside and beating with life,
Sleeping but not forever.