Hibernal

The older they get, the softer
the wooden palings that unfasten
more willingly away from the gird.
A nail loosens, no longer reticent
or wanting only to bury itself
in the body of a plank, obedient
to whatever pounded it into place.
Leaf by leaf things shed down
until there’s only blueprint,
skeleton, lines that web and blur
in the smudged dark, still groping
for what ripples out of sight.