seeing things
Always the pretty things would catch
her eye, winged or spangled,
bright against a cold sky
or smudged in smoky ells.
Her eyes drank the willow’s bark
and rings of rusty keys.
Even shut they saw the hart’s fine coat
and the sparkle of spilt coins.
Sleep revealed its own polished visions
of velvet and amber, copper and thorn.
Behind her eyes colors were born,
grey dust spun in splendid swirls.
She was caught in daylight
with the simplest of lures,
nothing but glittered water,
and there she stepped willingly.
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