Looking out over the creek
which the hill sends down to us
we can wonder how far the mind reaches.
Words are dismal emblems
for this departing and arriving
of the sun over the grass
and the blossoms that must come.
As it does, we are shorn
from the seasons of a gradual nature
and lost in bright scavenging
before any name is recognized.
Raw and open babies
are knitted to the world
when earnest pulsings are felt
and words have their echoes.
When this flowering fails
and the sun gathers its motes into distant rains
we cull the fields for tenderness
in those scars of mourning
that reach the center of everything.