away from the wooden angel

i know only dreams of soft wood
whittled down to the face of an angel
the pining whisper of needles
in sides exposed to winter's last cough

these are the small magicks
the mysteries of fate, faith and fading
listless, i stand in a knoll
waiting for the last ice to melt

it is noon before the sunlight finds me
faceless facing down, watching
the first step toward an unseen ocean
through the sediments to the river

it is midnight before i find the moon
black, faceless, facing down
watching as i take the first step
toward the ocean