This Night Is

cold like death,
silent like sleep.

Icy pillows mound
on the crystalline
blanket of Earth
holding seasons
in abeyance.

Pale canvas beckons
for crunchy giggles,
and wing flutters
embrace flight’s
imagination.

(One frozen berry
is a drop of blood
on the cheek
of morning.)

Monstrous beings
stand three circles high.
Pipe. Carrot. Charcoal
eyes melt hollowed sockets.

Art and nature are laced
into infinities of form,
substance melts to transparence,
evaporates.