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Other Woods
 
If you cherish the old tree of Calvary,
I don’t mind. But don’t mind me
as I wander in other woods.
Come Easter, I read poems in a random forest.
If the trees listen, they don’t tell.
But it is enough to let my voice catch in their crowns,
to be held there a moment, and then dissolve
into the sonic weave of birdsong, branch creak, and claw scuff;
then fall into that silence
language can only ghost--
myriad, endless, great with becoming.
I breathe in leaf rot and snowmelt,
savor it as I will the air liquored
with hyacinth, the lilac and peony;
the rose, blooded or pale,
scented with citrus or redolent of wine.
The cold still grips me in a long good-bye,
but soon it will open its fist,
and I will stretch with the days,
rousing like a bear urgent
to find where she dreamt
herself snout-deep in blackberries.
You see, I wander in other woods,
and even now, the green burns bright here and there,
calling the light home.