In the Ablative

With care,
with enough sunlight,
with the quiet that transcends
movement when a door hinge cracks like an eggshell—

In the summer,
in the first shallow drifts of autumn,
in the terrible seasons of rotting fruit
when we rush to embalm their sugar in pastry—

Where the assassin bug skates lightly,
where the deer have gone into the thorn,
where the wildness loves what’s
hidden, without shame—

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.