Petrified
Camille E. Colpitts
dead is
the forest
on birch ashes
a single sparrow
folds into winter
and melts
a wolves’ breath
covers sounds
of petrified leafs
of shallow roots
on borrowed time
come the laughing winds
we think tomorrow lends
the sun an extension
a flawed misprint on the map
without compass are these
wooded pavements
when she cries
here, alone.