in a brown study of a winter
anything bright draws the eye
one snowflake
wandering through the forest
the scarlet crest
of a pileated woodpecker
her knocks inaudible
above the ridgetop wind
working her snag all the while
i sip my afternoon tea
under a table mountain pine
whose sighs are endless
the sun almost comes out
but then it doesn’t
graupel ticking in the leaves
leads me to witch’s butter
a yellow rose turned
to enchanted flesh
feeding on the fungi they say
that feed on the dead
orange ellipses
on black birch
when bees are imaginary
any brightness can bloom
even green rocks held aloft
by upturned roots
or corrugated steel
chthonic with rust
below the ruin of a pine
sky filling the round holes
where limbs once stretched
toward the sun
