Worlds branch off like capillaries

From an oaken aorta.

Rustle of emeralds

Wreathed in drifting clouds.

I think of Tolkien’s son’s bedroom,

Dreams swimming through the window pane.

How many nights I might have spent opposite,

Chatting on street corners,

Watching lamplight blur in puddles,

Lost gems in overflowing storm drains.

All those pathways closed off:

Axe straight to the trunk,

Leaves twinkling out.

How many nights have been washed away?

Image Credit: Katie Kirkpatrick.