Possibility
Owlsong fills the forest
like a full breath
blown
through hollow bones
while stars spin the sky
in cool clarity
and it grows
building like hoar frost, one molecule at a time,
stacked in delicate pernicity,
creating designs that come morning
will steal
your
breath.
Watch as it too
deepens
like a night in December,
thickening at moonpace
bent on
becoming
new
snapping
your careful wrappings
as if set in ice fantastic
safe
until that glassy body
also
shatters
leaving you to face
your own
talons.
Let it become.
Allow it to stretch these creature limbs
and gaze across the meadow.
Even now you see the
shards scattering across starlight
and feel the way
each owlish hoot hollows your throat
lifting the airy bones
of
possibility.
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