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Somewhere
it unravels,
lands furled upon moss,
snagged in the spider’s web,
or sits dewed upon long blades of morning.
It breaks dormancy
roots and shoots
to meet tinselled cheeps
and the uncertain step of a fawn.
At each point
where cygnets touch nest, touch water,
or horns graze birch and brush,
is a whisper that flits forward,
glow upon glow,
affirming what’s buried beneath.
No one tells you
that the ark was made of light
each cubit knotted and dazzled
and while the world was daring to die
from each icicle and sprig
they came, two and two,
in them the breath of light.