Verge
       

Where I sit, a pile of storm-struck
twigs can rise in humid columns

of August air, pine needles can glow
in fingers of tree-filtered sunlight,

smoke can seem a halo suspended
in evergreens. Where I reach,

moonlight pools; wind ribbons
around each curved arm. My hair

is a nest of golden filaments. Planks
in this house, my body, creak.

I must float without pruning, wear
fire without burning, thread light

without catching a hand
in the web, build a home in stillness

without splintering arches. I must
breathe to wake up and blaze.

Tweet

Copyright © 2016 Christine Stewart-Nuñez All rights reserved
from Bluewords Greening
Terrapin Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission