I am bare branches, streaked with moss
and damp-darkened, north-facing shadows.
I am that secret place—there, all the way up
—where a bird's nest rested securely through
a summer’s worth of thunderstorms, and
where, now, only a few strands of yellowing
weeds waver in the wind.
I am a shade-strewn evening porch, overlooking
an emerald expanse of tender grass,
soon to be blanketed by a crystal sheet of ice
or the white-hot kiss of winter's first snow.
I am the unwritten poem, rising, subsiding,
always just out of sight, known but unrecognizable,
a season of shifting light and midnight frost,
of dreams lost to the joy of waking, and, this time,
I am taking my own sweet time.
(c) 2018, by Hannah Six
Image: Hernán Piñera/Flickr (CC BY-SA 2.0)