by Jane Gibson

 

Winter sun glares across the pillow —

dares to slide beneath the edges of my eyelids —

in silent summons tugs me to the pane now starred with unpredicted frost.

 

Shadows stretch their morning fingers

across the stubbled field and reach

to clasp the dawning rays and draw them into navy depths surrounding shivering trees.

 

Grass still tinged with autumn’s fading green

shimmers in a skin of ice that begs

the crackle of its arctic glaze beneath my boot-clad feet along the narrow path.