You shape my bones into your hunting coat.
Rain slants like needles through the falling air.
The field is vast with the old blood of leaves.
Fire in the windows warms my eyes to sleep.
Trees interlace the hills with gray patchwork.
I feel your fingers mend my broken wings.
Wind fades your name into a thread of smoke.
I cry its incandescence through my dreams.
We must believe that gray is beautiful,
East still exists although its outlines dim.
I feel the wind of dawn upon my face.
Put your hand there, and you will feel it too.
Previously published, Auraq, Pakistan