Descending air moves suspended water

down hill sides as I trace a painted line

which follows a remembered path that lies

nestled in sides. Now quiet. Stony Run.

 

From my opening door warmth billows out

along the length of my arm, and rolls off

my gloved hand. The vapours recoil in

the chill, with nowhere to go but out side.

 

Air gilded by crystal fibers, small flash

frozen lovers, fingers and palms and wrists

and arms. My eyes follow each twisted trail.

Small subjects, each adrift in moon and wind.

 

Nothing complacent in their journey. Each

facet direct change, in motion through space

in time, until touch lights on a final

spot to rest: a berth, a hollowéd home.

 

More than motion. Form falls on eyelashes

and on the black wool that wraps me up tight.

But with my gloves off, I can feel sharp heat

as the moment frozen lands on my skin.

 

A sudden fear of forced loss chills my spine

still quickly shattered by blue Silvertone

sounding me through new phrases from old lines.

Something more than endless combinations.

 

In that pause, I open up both naked

hands to the sky to feel the past move me

to smile as I stick out my tongue and taste

another piece falling from heaven.

 

My fingers grasp now animated time

melting to travel along my life lines.

Cold warmed, ethereal made tangible,

protected love moves through a door up stairs.