December<\/p>\n
I imagine winter returning as if woken from a dream,
\nclambering from the iced rabbit-hole of the field,
\nopen-mouthed. The sound it makes coming home
\nknee-deep in the night, its slow feet, the numb toes.<\/p>\n
I listen for the pain in the white shins of the birches,
\nsplinter-trees charred by cold, limbs creaking.
\nWhat is the sound of winter? Bark dropping wetly
\nbeneath the laid-down lace of the snow. <\/p>\n
And where does it go? To the scales of the fish
\nwhich are its sequins, to the frost-skin of the pond
\nwhere it grows itself, to the branches of the water
\nin which it sits, spinning its own white body. <\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
the woods in gothenburg are burning <\/p>\n
they have set fire to themselves. a floor
\nof dry roots, twigs, and a green leaf
\nhas moved itself to focus the sun. the people
\nof gothenburg are standing on the streets.
\nthey are peering from their juliet balconies
\nat the trees whose heads are catching flame,
\nwhose sleeping has turned to roaring, who
\nare welcoming the wind with their bodies.
\nthe nests of the birds are firing, the birds
\nare red embers stinging. each tree is waiting
\nin turn to be set alight, to be given anger
\nand freedom. the woods in gothenburg,
\non the hill at johanneberg and by the water-tower
\nare moving. they are done with all the piety
\nof trees which is the piety of people. they
\nhave grown braver than us, have stood
\nunnoticed for too long, they have given
\ntoo much for too long and now they have taken
\na match to their children. they are dancing
\nover the hills. the woods are taking
\nflight. they are lifting their spirits up
\nbetween buildings. they are sending
\nwhat is left of themselves piece by piece
\ninto the sky like a bright burning colony of bees.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
December I imagine winter returning as if woken from a dream, clambering from the iced rabbit-hole of the field, open-mouthed. The sound it makes coming home knee-deep in the night, its slow feet, the numb toes. I listen for the pain in the white shins of the birches, splinter-trees charred by cold, limbs creaking. What […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":7,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[327,328],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\n