Maybe this is the year that packs so much punch
we turn elemental, simple start of water,
walking across sky, walking with snow,
soft groans underfoot - unfolding in white orchids,
unfolding with aroma of lentil stew,
sometimes stiff like a cold river making
its meander around alabastered maples,
sometimes turning glorious into a verb,
sometimes turning us into meadow of mud and moss –
sometimes into moments subtle as February.
You stand agog with the hunger moon,
still fluffed up in pink crystal.
I want to skirt night's edge,
listening for the hymn that binds us.
listening for the sound of green wood sheep,
bleating to the wide smile of a gray day.
Sometimes the day rings deeper than our laments
about Monday's forecast and daylight savings time.
Sometimes we want to hold the ocean, yes, maybe this is the year.