When I returned Noe
to the earth and she sent
her staccato of sweetness up
into the unending sky,
I was not yearning
for more than I was given.
Then the blueberries got
to chattering all along
the lattice of the deck and
you rose from your empty
decade, your margin of darkness
to reach a bracken arm in.
Volunteer is what they call it
when a plant chooses you.
I did not know how to be chosen.
You showed me how the husk
of an old life becomes a chorus.
You showed me receiving
could be as simple as holding
up my empty hands.
Posted by kind permission of the poet.
He wants to fill in the pasture’s low spots. I say no, no, no these…
O body, cracked bell that still sings when struck, O leaky cup, O broken stem,…
Oh to find that still surface, the glide of silk and silence, sun lit along…
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