Obscured

The night air is quiet
Ripe with possibility
Fortunate in repose
Over margins of black
Ink-stained fingers reaching
To touch the face of god
This whistling wind
Breezing through the trees
Encapsulated in hollows
Finding unsteady purchase
Among shadowed roots
Anchored and worn
In flickering dreams
Where life sometimes begins
And waits for a warning
Written in the stars.

Sam