How We Understand Space

I slide between narrow rows of pines
crunching needles under my soft feet
and note the paleness of the horizon
through green and tangled branches.

Christmas is all I smell: eggnog, wrapping paper,
chopped oak burning a red flavor through the house.

I step past the columns of trees
and stand at the edge of a frozen field;
it looks broken from here
caught under these dreary eyes,
forgotten in shambles till spring.

I wish I could speak of the sun.

Bare fingers chilled numb by the wind,
my pockets loaded with pine cones,
I call myself the walking tree
as I stroll through the empty field
pushing seeds into the snow and ice.

A quiet warmth sets through my veins
when only dust remains in my hands.
Out here, nothing is ever certain,
but maybe I will not die alone.