Last night, without a sound,
a ghost of a world lay down on a world, 

trees like dream-wrecks 
coralled with increments of frost. 

Found crevices 
and wound and wound 
the clock-spring cobwebs. 

All life’s ribbon frozen mid-fling. 

Oh I am 
stone thumbs, 
feet of glass.

Work knocks in me the winter’s nail. 

I can imagine 
Pain, turned heron, 
could fly off slowly in a creak of wings. 

And I’d be staring, like one of those 
cold-holy and granite kings, 
getting carved into this effigy of orchard.