Tree Mink


Tree Mink

It looks nothing like it, that inky drip of summery mink who streamed into my winter’s dream
and filled my hands — soft, dense, warm in wriggling slink, strange in a season that chaps
and cracks

but here and now as I bend, snow-naped, cloud-wreathed near this still down tree
a twist of branch eyes me, not warily, but warmly, bold and minky in its curious slope
and I remember with both palms how quickly mink move

and how this night season, fur frosted, only stills for a breath
before it turns on light feet and slips with toes snowy to show how, in their own time
the trees never stop dancing 

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