Blue Cohosh

    

In the slow, slow unwinding

of the year's slowest month,

alone in the dripping woods

with the blue cohosh rising,

how do i sing you

the phases of the moon?


Does tomorrow exist

as the rain down the glass?

Can the fire in the grate

absolve us of the future?


The dog sleeps on the bed.

I  listen for hours trying to learn

the language of water and flame,

the chant of her breathing.


Cast beyond the verge,

it's all we can do to cry out

to one another in the dark

like bats hunting moths

in windowlight after a storm,

the universe hung in the trees.