by Jack Kelly

I

Walking through a wood, I see 
the light bleed. 

The winter air 
      is crisp. 
The shadows are clear 
	upon the ground. 

Listen to 
the gentle click 
of the emptied branches. 

Listen to 
the fallen leaves 
	talk. 

Let the sun’s heat 
	awaken 
	the chilled flesh. 
		Awake –

II

So much of me 
	can be said within 
	little reflections: 

the puddle rumbling 
within a wood, quaking and 
      shivering 
	with the wind – and yet 
	the water remains 
	smooth-placid-clear. 

My visage 
is cast along 
	the trees. 

My teeth 
are in the roots. Mine eyes 
are the hues of blue skies 
above your head. 

My many fingers-bare 
	reach 
	and 
	reach upwards. 

		In the fiery evening,
		when the sun strikes
			the last note
	of the day-hour, 
all the trees become 
	shadows, 
	black. 

All the winter bark is shown
	dark against
an unyielding light. I swear, 
that color 
	seeps 
into mine veins and 
	becomes 
	mine blood. 

III

That iridescent 
pink flare and 
	hot orange, 
	   green and blue, 
	   becomes me. 

I am as the trees, I am less. I am 
those branches 
		breaking up 
		the light. 
I am 
	in the clouds 
	catching fire. 
I am 
the eerie 
	twilight 
	beckoning you, 
	reader, 
to step outside and 
	meet me.

Editors Note on Step Outside:

Step Outside is not the first poem by Jack Key that Eastlit has published. The Bread and the Wine was published in the September 2013 issue of Eastlit.