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| Blue cohosh (JO'B) |
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 phrases of the moon?
Does tomorrow exist
as the rain down the glass?
Can the fire in the grate
absolve us of the future?
I listen for hours trying to learn
the language of water and flame.
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.
—first published April 28. 2015
