If snow falls on cedars, let me be pine,
        a stolid passion in the coming storm–
        to stand where planted, roots gone pediform–
        until the wind that sways these limbs consigns
        these arches into motion, wild moon shine
        awakening what’s petrified & worn
        to dance outside the lines, once dendriform
        but free verse, now, our poetry aligned.

                There is a hidden glen within our words–
                a bowl to catch the wind, the rain, the light–

                        a sanctuary where the trees lift swords
                        of branches in salute to stars & night.

        & when the clouds embrace to break at last
        that space will sow the seems once overcast.