Possible

Possible

Snow melts even at twilight now, marking time

like the saw whet’s singular tune.

Every face has turned to the silvery rose of night

a secret season 

spun from slanted sunlight, rivulet braids 

and molded leaf. 

Every rounding bud, every clear note gathers 

suspended, riveted

nested between lavender and leaf dream. Awake

beneath the soft indigo that once held

stars and snowbreath

everything exhales possible.