Springtime Witchcraft

The hue from the full moon fractures
Through the window, rays splayed
In the shape of a once whole face.
Followed by the damp Montanan orchestra,
Breezy half-step birdsong and howling riffs.
Individual calls seek recognition,

In the fragmented yet coagulated noise
Pollution-- like our idiosyncratic song.
Stacked in a pyramid
Whose foundation pines apex
And pinnacle seeks base.
We are an ecosystem of contradictions.

And while the rays make their ways
Across the floor, highlighting unused acrylics
And virgin novels, abandoned relics
Of a blossomed yesteryear echo
Poignant tunes-- as if walls were strings
On a piano whose pedal won't lift.

The sheets still have that rhythm.
It is written in the ever-so-salty-stains--
A major chord we believe. Step down
One minor third to read the trail of clothing
Removed ever so gently in syncopated
Zephyrs between two chests.

To faces in half-finished paintings
Who sang backup for the recurring ode
To springtime witchcraft--
Where the songs of wolves and birds
Are indistinguishable amidst the beat
Of trepidatious hearts.