Random Acts of Poetry

Sunday Morning

The witch tree's limber fingers
sheltered the fluttering birds

as the sky howled;
I sat beneath a table of stone.

The devouring maw
of wilderness desired me:

I saw a cloud disguised
as a lion's head,

crawling vines encircled
my wrists and ankles,

and the sun seared
till I drowned in moonlight.

I woke up nerve numb,
crushed by sleep.

All morning
my mind was an empty plate.