The way the sun rises here is

Red like the way it set at home,

Bleeding over cream snow that

Lies in drifts around the door.

Smooth wood with roots like

Rose petals fallen to the floor

Snaking veinous under ground.

I feel as though I’m stumbling

Over my own shivering skin,

Reborn into some pale world,

Laced through with garnet ribbon,

Watched by high, graying clouds.

From a distance, the castle is

Only a binding of smooth bark,

Trees with limbs like puzzle pieces,

Their leaves a maroon river,

Covering the roots like carpet.

All the best, because I must have

Lost my shoes in the walking

From one world to this blushed next.

Their limbs scrape the ether sky,

Turrets of a howling wind, and,

As I approach, the hosts of

Cherry glass sing all constellations.

Falling through the arched doorway-

A tangle of auburn saplings that

Picked and tore at my long coat-

I find the floor of marble: white,

Streaked through with peach veins.

The walls are the forest, and they

Become the chandelier, the ceiling,

The staircase spiraling upwards,

Towards a descending heaven, one

That burns from perching windows.

Rows of wildflowers growing forth,

Springing from cracks in the floor like

Spills of wine-lined stepping stones.

Ice that gathers here is nothing:

Threatening mounds of crystal sugar

Sweetening the oaky atmosphere.

A chorus of winds through hollows

Over a symphony of heavy breaths-

My own, cutting through arctic air-

Made its own ethereal orchestral as

Tiny feet curl around the ridges of

Lateral branches ascending, rising

Up into some vast, unknown space.

Curiosity like the throne room,

Or at least what I perceive to be,

With ceilings of gilded bronze,

Painted over with the smiting faces

Of some other crimson-robed gods,

Their silver-height judgement days

On those of us that wander here

And the glassy ice-paned windows

That cast gray light over the lengths

Of the carpets leading to the altar.

Reaching up to join the high ceiling,

The throne of red-grained branches

Arches before me, and I am nothing.

But for the luxury, only the traveler,

No obvious, anxious feet beyond

To break a solitary silence, to pace

Back and forth across grave marble.

And given up on finding, I seek;

Open windows see a garnet night,

A blanket falling over grayness, or

Taking it over, a chessboard of color,

I, on the sill, the single observer

Of stars like cardinals, only stiller,

A string of jewels, Ares’s treasures.

Hours unaware, as much installation

As the sky above and wood below.

A globe in my hand, the world below

Falls into a long, quiet landscape,

Stretching from here to the oceans-

Tumbling fiery skies that reach

For the distant curve of mountains,

Falling short in their bordering sands.

Perhaps a city, an island of white,

In the eye of some forest storm.

No scar to its pleasure, the nature

Of this place is whole, is peaceful,

Is without noise but the groans of

An admiring breeze and the songs of

Worlds in the eternity before sleep.

Darkness fallen, a growing sense

That whatever hole or door or magic

I fell through might allow me finally

To fall back to the world original,

And I abandon my lofty sovereignty,

Into the unlit halls, though now void of

The emptiness it once was, for as I

Step from the sill, the figments

Twirl past- ghosts, to me, awakened

By the night at hand- in shapes like

Those of men, dressed in finery,

Through their smokey translucence.

I bow and nod and wave to them;

In their benevolence, they return my

Greetings with silent smiles, even as I

Pass through their waltzes, and the

Eminence of a queen to her throne.