Still, She sleeps,

and doubtless dreams

(as do I)

of slips of things

new and green —

curling, budding, tendrilling.

Waxing Moon pressed to Her brow,

sunlight’s memory gathered to Her heart.

Veins, a migration of stirring wings.

Patience,

patience —

The dream remains unbroken.

Disturb Her not.

And when I cry aloud for haste —

please,

please —

remind me of the same.

— C.Birde, 2/16