Guilt in Spring, A Qasida
Snowmelt, then phoebe, nuthatch, cardinal, yellow finch,
and two deep cuts on bark that claws had etched.
While she sat musing, something hungry watched
like a roving bandit or fairytale witch
brewing the spell her betrayal would catch:
a sleep of a hundred years, a mind without stretch.
When her bones sparked like grindstones, she flinched.
Something dextrous was lifting the latch.