What of the milk they nuzzled at birth,
and prior to that, what of water and blood?
What of the debris-spattered windshield,
the tunnel wide enough for only one?
What of the minerals gummed with salt and mud,
nourishing dark mixed of earth and flint?
What of the aster and the amaranth, then tiny buds
of forget-me-nots stripped from the field?
What of the year’s deepening light pooled in
the eyelids, a glaze the shade of pomegranates?
And what of the flanks of animals stepping through winter
wheat; then shadows of antlers crossed with the honeylocust’s?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.