The blistered shadow sprouts with crooked back –
a homeomorphic echo of songs pursuing
the rhythm of memory-dusted bone.
Trinkets packed away, so the smiles
and tears can be surrendered to time.
Slender fingers applaud the bladed currents;
exposed skin, painting faults against the sky –
cradling dormant frames of childhood,
with their trinkets and down; innocent whorls
In the last weeks of the year the birds return,
dark strokes of oil still finding their shape,
but bringing the songs back with them.