The thin hammock of the moon
is tipping you out,
letting you scale down the
spidered structures of oak and maple.
On each branch-tip, a star perches,
a cool twinkling, blue and gray hints
of winter stillness
and don’t you laugh with wonder
when you know how far that light rayed out,
how hot those salt-crystal dustings
must once have blazed?
No guarantee they are still there;
maybe all that is left is
some bit of light
weaving its way through a black weft,
arriving just in time
to slide into roots and scarves and gloves
to bleed crimson and orange
or array itself in fractal rainbows
as the first tiny snowflakes fall.