She says her name is Sky.
on cold, sharp-shivered branches,
you can hear her call
coming up from the woods at night.
The wind takes its sound and shapes it
over the mountain,
Night is whole, she says,
with the direction of the fog.
(There is a need to wander.)
For things done, for things left undone,
her version of it prayerful,
wades through branches –
the swift, the shaded of it
the way very deep black is always taking,
choosing something of the mountain
to cling to,
to fall on fiercely
Poem and image by Sarah Rehfeldt. Please do not copy without my permission.
Poem and image published in Seven CirclePress / CircleShow, vol. 12 (Summer 2015).