sometimes i think i hear whispers
in the woodpile, voices from far
mysterious forests where one long
beam of light shines on a patch of green moss.

sometimes tree-ghosts disguised as dogs
come and lick the bowls i leave on the
back porch. the wind spins me from
this ordinary world until i am almost
broken with regret, split

like this pile of green hickory and oak.
in the dark, a vision of rustling leaves chases
me into dreams, pursued by splintered voices
that moan in the pitch dark night,

then lift and become blue smoke