I have seen the same grey-orange night in your eyes
as in a sunset cast like a tapestry over
the edge of the world.

the color I
caught on my tongue to savor
for an oak-millennia til I
could rewarm the order, the
ethos tasting of
cider and wine.

I do not know which
phantasmal beast
or brethren
(or brood)
(or wood nymph)
I speak of when I
transfigure such
wax poetic.

it fits its own scenery though; the fossil
no longer exists, but its
imprint is extant ever,
filled in summer with
petrified snow.