An afternoon breeze once whisked me from a daydream
into cascading leaves
and after how I’ve screamed
of leaves on fire,
of pyres of sunlight,
of seasoned shores, of ships and chilled whiskers,
of slippers, of warm, warm winters,
of icicle fights,
of blazing leaves, preserved in ice,
I now keep to spires
with middle-story windows.
There I steep, for only in the dungeon,
or in that tower room,
am I blinded by glory and reckoned by gloom.