by Tarn W.P. MacArthur
Snow, and only snow,
and the space between flakes
where we hide our hearts;
under the curved glass of winter
the moon is low, slight,
pouring shadows
where I wake upstream.
As a child I scoured
these woods, put lips
to cold damp bark: hematic
sweetness of the maple sap–
secret to the night-bird tongues
licking notes from white-frocked
branches, shattering the air
where I stand fast-rooted
as the trees whose blood
flows down and through my feet.
When the sun rises I melt,
wake again years later–
the soft babble of voices
rises from the bedrock and rests
deliquesce on the glass-pane
where I stare: always
through the silver
fingers of the maples.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 