Four Lunes
the seam where winter
begins to
bend, and light lengthens
glare-shattered water—
blue heron
balanced on black stone
it isn’t unlike
poetry—
whirlwind of dead leaves
dormant globe thistle
black as ash
under the new snow
oh, this is yummy; really like, this point in time like a precipice. tell me to take a hike, but what about "dead leaves whirling"?