the brittle stars rise cautious

over the long spring night

from which the insistent winter

that has finally departed


there is nothing left to say

about the new leaves

the daily sun continued to tug

out of their buds


the weary eyes have begun

to inch shut in growing sleep

the stars bursting into a speared gleaming

and the last waking consciousness


imagines these stars as pin holes through

which the eternal white can subsume and soothe









Content (c) 2008-2016 Philip Milito.