Frost pastes a mosaic
of downed old leaves rimmed in rime.
Like teacup dregs and tarot cards
splayed on sugared tables,
readings of left behinds,
these patchworks pinch in icy grout.
Leafy feathers fly, wings wish,
ash fires and golden glooms
to muted stars and folded moons,
fans of ginko grace,
silver bristles on pine needle beards.
I see a universe
of alder ribs, gray stones and marrow bones
stippled skeletons on ice.
– Tricia Knoll at triciaknoll.com