Light Summer Night

Even heavy firs awake

in the moment, the pinprick,

the right measure

long plucked from wind.

Old henna lattices open,

deep veins staining through;

a strange, rich calligraphy

to pressed flower sky.

Deep as teardrop symphonies,

spherical mysteries grow

opal fingers, thin as ice,

to clamp fistfuls of light.

The dry square matchboxes

(where old souls hide)

catch in full fire, a dance

to fall on en pointe shadows-

dry, fresh rivers, runways

to and from the air.

Every branch, every scar of smoke

remembers to fly,

remembers to grow thick plumes

in old peacock green, beetle brown;

Every flower already blown alight,

the sweet air is full of flight.