Skylight
At night, when a wind comes through, the pines bend around the stars.
Over and over until the black and sway of the world begins to lighten, making everything under the eyelids of sleep white, whiter until the sun’s insistence wakes you.
Straw catches on top and brown leaves all summer. Underneath, spiders take the corners, wait for mosquitoes; the shell of their bodies drop to the bed.
If the rain is long and sustained enough, it will find a path through, drop slowly and steadily, creating its own time.
I’ve seen the glass iced, separating the angles of the sun.
I’ve seen it sweltering with condensation.
In the clearing always, the needles curve to the light, returning the shape of the sky to us.