Silver leaves

Silver leaves, those feathers from the sky as
falling stars flutter gently to our feet.

Crinkles wrinkle my nose with delight when
cold clean breath touches bark, toe.

Forest scent and prairie night, foxes
red, foxes grey. A whisper to the crescent
moon, a cry,

a secret for the day. A mouse
wiggles in the grass; the feathers move.

We feel it soft beneath our feet begin and
our skin is crawling with the first light when

our hair stands on end, and tight our
hands--the wonder-- as if each ray

spoke answers to our pain and the
cold, cold grasp of thorns all up our clothes

into our skin could not hold back the
deep, deep red of some tropical fish.