I remembered who took me
into their dark kingdoms, before
breathing fire among my trees.
They fell branches by the dozen;
grappling with nothing but darkness—
As if all had never heard insects’ thoughts.
So, she slept on a stone bed of white
lichens between night and
morning stars; small birds
vanished seeds tenderly
around her light water skirts.
River pockets do moths work; floated
back in better thought—
Earth rose full; at times perfect.
Arranging something luminous.