Bite by bite, shadows swallow
another day
framed in an octagon of window
over my front door
White sky, smudged
slate clouds, overhang
painterly layers
of bruised violet, salmon, flame orange
But it’s the crowd of trees that chant
as I pass the stairs—
starved scarecrows silhouetted
in a frozen dance—
troubling me like an ancient answer
I can’t unearth.
They linger and plead as every minute
moves light to deep sleep
I step into the cold
nightfall wrung dry with the smell of fire
ghost of incense–
which ritual is this?
Originally published by the San Pedro River Review
