Possibility

 

Owlsong fills the forest 

like a full breath 

blown

through hollow bones

while stars spin the sky 

in cool clarity

 

and it grows

 

building like hoar frost, one molecule at a time,

stacked in delicate pernicity, 

creating designs that come morning

will steal 

your 

breath.

 

Watch as it too

deepens

like a night in December,

thickening at moonpace

bent on 

becoming 

new

 

snapping

your careful wrappings 

as if set in ice fantastic 

safe

until that glassy body 

also

shatters

 

leaving you to face

your own

talons.

 

Let it become.

Allow it to stretch these creature limbs

and gaze across the meadow.

Even now you see the 

shards scattering across starlight 

and feel the way 

each owlish hoot hollows your throat

 

lifting the airy bones

of 

possibility.