Out in the pasture, barefoot, the beginning of January
scorpions of shadow rise from the surface of orange moons
& a white cat slips between my legs in a trick
though I wish she was a deer, that I could ride her off
away from my past. I open my hand
__& in the palm I have permanent- inked an eyeball, winking
__& I hold a pocketwatch in the other hand
__& I am balanced against the world's forces.
My feet are iced from blue frost i have no slippers
I have only the love I have known to encourage me forward
I have only the tidbits of love I have known
whether transient or not, as the leaf is, so the leaf returns
__as the bird forsakes its branch to build yet another
__so the red leaf turns.