Hangdog
           head, hamstrung
heart, she bends to the faun-smelling
earth for the comfort of dirt.

                       Were there no
           real demons
she could quickly decide on light.

                       Wind clicks,
           shadows split
and spill
through quirky trees:
                        Glyphs and sigils.
Sigils and glyphs.

The sun in her blood is not enough— 
           she leans to heliopsis,
                        Lenten rose;
sinks her fingers into the soil,
            taps a glassy surface.

Slowly, over the hour,
            works a window
                        out of the earth.
Soap veneered to its panes
congeals the view.

—ELANA WOLFF

(Originally published Christmas, 2007.)