The Sleep of Trees
There are storms in the memory of sleep.
What I remember though is not what happened.
What happened was more than enough.
And through the opened window, what the trees had to say was
the rest of my
My life then was the light that creeps in back of a storm, the
the downpour, against the shake of thunder.
window to window, room to room — a flood
always in my
Maybe every sleep carries its own storm.
Maybe every sleep waits like a kindness never given though felt
as if everything
depended on its smallest word. Waits
for the next morning. And the next.
w i g · l e a F