These paths lose track of me,
and me, now and then.
Light spits into snakes.
Moss coils in pure shade,
ingrown jade.
The chokes of sawing,
a plane lost in thought,
the repose of trunks,
decomposing.
Fields in the trees
overgrow with meltwater;
walking with you,
ice slips away,
brilliantly.
– 5/4/17 Hamilton, ON
