Speak, Tree


Speak, tree, of all
you've seen, your whole
life holding sky.

Tell us about
standing still and
waiting for wisdom.

Tell us about
being rooted. Then,
when the time comes,

friend, show us
what it means to
fall back to earth,

this green earth
from which you came,
to which we all must go.





I Touch


the old
pine, my

friend. It
makes the

wind to
move its

boughs
for me.





Like Desire


the basket
waiting to hold

apples.





​
In the Margin


from here to there
where edge meets edge

and is neither
this nor that, here

where the world
is new now, and old,

this leap between.





A Bird, Nothing More


in a cold and grey
autumn, fragile

in the hard light. White
along the tail tells

for sure what it is.
Junco. And not just

any one of them.
This one, which holds

here, in the failure
of the falling season,

all that needs holding.