Night

Sometimes

When the sun is 

A red slice of apple

On a tree fork,

The wind calls outside

I walk slowly 

And feel grass on the bottom of my feet,

A porcupine’s sharp, deliberate tickle.

Clothed in berry smells

Wind swings branches like a child

Then snaps an arm off and

Presents the gift at my feet.

Strands of pearls emerge and

Pin shut night’s curtains

Diamonds in an oil spill

Covering me like a polka dot blanket

And with a scarecrow’s grin, I sleep.

by Aimee Wray