On the walk, a patch of green,
a slip of bloom which someone
has tagged: “Bashful.”
I try to walk fast, believing
that way, I might gain space
to catch up with myself.
Slub of hand-dyed yarns, colors
other than the dark and blue of ink:
I’ll plunge my hands into their stain.
How much more of our history
do we need to rescue? Between the owl
and the dogwood, we don’t get to decide.
In the evenings, the heat
is a faceted glass from which,
gratefully, we’ll drink to sleep.
Coming across the word outhouse,
sometimes I imagine these rooms walking
outside without us just to sit in moonlight.