[ORIGINAL POEM] High above the trees

A boreal storm rages -
it's the time when the rowan-berries ripen.
Awake in the darkness, I can hear
the constellations stomping in their stalls
high above the trees.
I lie on the bed with my arms widely spread
like an anchor sunken deeply into the earth
holding
the mighty shadow floating above,
the great unknown of which I'm a part
and that surely is more important than I am.