Cold Trail

The feeling of time derives from heat,

an agitation of molecules,

oracles from the friction of air

through fissures and the leaves of oaks.

A few gnats stitch the lake’s edge

where a fox turns off the gravel road

to nose through rhododendron

as children crawl through winter coats

to reach a closet’s dark recess.

Dawdling at the edge of sleep

you work through problems already past

though unresolved, a notional path,

a crease through heads of wild blue phlox

that waking, you can’t follow.