February Forest

by Diana Odasso

Behind black silhouettes of trees lies a soft wool –
You wish to rest your eyes there a moment,
and pull gray knots of yarn over your lids,
relax your pupils on purls of dead moss and fairy down

This pale-hued palette is a slow fall to sleep,
a crepuscular swaddling cloth,
like the oval taste of lemon sherbet on your tongue
or a forgetful fleece lost in the counting.

Occasionally a bramble pricks your retina
your winter eyes water but you pay no heed
because now your mind is edging its way under covers
It needs a nap too.