Laura Navratil
Plim
The pasture-tree is siphoned. Precise
in the fog
its voice unfolds the meat of trunk
green plims the bark.The winter shifts its feet at the doorway, fidgeting with buttons, hair. It will come in
soon. Earth inspires the saturation—from the tips, first
and downward by the handsbreadth. Slow.
Juice of summer, extracted.
