Falling asleep by the purple curtains,
the hail dropping like knuckle sized
sacraments by my window, the dew
somehow it does-on the syrupy
absinthe green arborvitae.
Ripping through the clutched
dream, I awake just to listen to
the half eaten sound of the milkweed
drying in the breeze.
A sound reminding me of a time before winter.