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.