Running the brittle floor—upon leaves settled to soil.
With mild hands wandering—through air and pressed sunlight.
Becoming branches—breaching the film of moist sky.
Clinging to winter’s sun—lucent thoughts, fictile.
Moving with the wildness—of the warm, fragile body.
Its abstractions of molds—ravines, dips, and death.
Wet pine needles held in a beam of furtive light.