by Steve Klepetar
No one speaks the language
of sparrows, no one cries.
Here on frozen paths your face
lights the way or seems to spill
a lantern’s glowing blood down
hooded valleys where dead stars fall.
And your voice calls me
back from the well and your eyes
burn a message on my wrists
and arms. Your hair is a curtain
of flame. Fire in my chamber,
coals in the hall – all these wonders
in December when the world
and glowworms wriggle
underground where thoughts
struggle in nets of steel and even
jugglers can’t help but muff the moon.