the horses cheekbones sing
shadows deepen
and the sky falls, not to darkness
but to baby clothes
wrinkled, waiting to swaddle the earth in lullaby colors
and all the while
our stories
stashed in a wood stove
until stars start to clutter our sky and silhouettes of charred trees scar the horizon.

we brush our teeth with moondust
and if thouse clouds were a renaissance of color, this dark is a renaissance of youth
innocence and imagination steal us away from the staleness of things
insisting on being
humbled by the sweetness of now
fear sinks deep into the slithering of the creek
and the horses cheekbones sing.