Twining days

in twining days
that slow with heavy fruit
the impatient nights
are sought by local gods

whose croaks are remnants
of former nocturnal glories
and cry now for what few
crumbs of creeping things
and dragonfly wings will
keep them in an icy sleep

in twining days
that shed what both
earth and light married
in the angels' lair

whose feathers drift aloft
in battling breezes among
and through the gnarled
halls of ancient lullabies,
through the arms that once
cradled, swaying us to sleep

in twining days
that crown the trees with
hues of Aurora's glory
bleeding from the eve

whose blackened cloaks
of indigo webbing and
cobalt silks ripple across
the midnight high, to catch
the Sandman's dust that
gleams above a child's sleep

in these twining days
that coil around trailing flame
and whisper out a name
to the chill upon the wind

whose deed is death in
a freezing breath that raps
upon the Autumn's door
and laces dreams of the
dormant seeds deep within
their terrestrial sleep