If you live deep enough within the heart
of woods, and wake just as the long night
begins loosening its grip on first light
and birdsong, you never know what might dart
across the fading screen of dreams.
This is the time when memory
is feral. Your eyes remain closed to see
your brother live again, then open to evergreen
shapes looming outside your window
that become your brother petrified
with terror at the moment death pried
him loose. You think you know
where you are but are lost for good,
at home at last within the heart of woods.