We dangled From insistent shadows With unciform fingers.
Leapt across yawning Interstices of moments Barely closed in on themselves,
Knee-deep in molten latticework We may adjourn here For the while.
We recall stories of Nascent stones, completely dry And brittle to the touch.
We will eat them, And will roll about the Contours of these meadows
Awash in the coolness Of a dawn sanctified By its own forgetfulness.
Art: “Snow in October” Tom Thomson