Abide

On the radio I heard a naturalist say  
        if she were to meet her death from an animal

encounter, she would rather it be a large
        snake—boa constrictor, for example. 

To be emptied of breath, to pass out 
        en route to inhabiting your own cathedral 

of absence—you're told it's a romance
        you hardly have a chance at authorship.

But what does the thunder say as it wakes
        blind spores springing up out of ash-

covered soil; out of dead, splintered wood
        as clouds roll in, heavy with rain? Inside 

the corn and bean, radicles curl up before growing 
        downward to anchor the seed. In the end 

or in the beginning, nothing vacates the world
        forever. Salt sifts and turns to spume, and spume

to rain. In the highest bell towers, kestrel and swift
         build nests with every dry and discarded thing.