Petrified

Camille E. Colpitts

dead is
the forest
on birch ashes

a single sparrow
folds into winter
and melts

a wolves’ breath
covers sounds
of petrified leafs

of shallow roots
on borrowed time
come the laughing winds

we think tomorrow lends
the sun an extension
a flawed misprint on the map

without compass are these
wooded pavements
when she cries

here, alone.