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?
