|Oct/Nov 2013 Poetry|
Electronic/fiber artwork by Phillip Stearns
At first the light encrypted there
when you stepped out
Into the mist—the windswept hair,
the swirling rout
Of leaves—was held back by the stark
and tangled names
That must take on a colder spark
before they flame.
But when you spoke in runes, the choir
of leaves was stilled
And all the trees became a fire
of darkness spilled.