Al Gabor

A Quickening

When night is a forest

where the wind wanders begging.

When dawn is a shackled mare.

When winter is a bone

sharpened into a dagger.

When spring is a meadow

of ash and clay.

A day late,

light returns, slow at first,

then raucous,

provoking the roses,

jostling your windows,

finally

easing into the husk of you.

Coloring your face,

your shoulders, your chest,

the soft flame of a quickening.