When god visits us he sleeps
                                without a clock in empty bird nests.

                                      – Jim Harrison (“The Little Appearances of God”)

We give ourselves away
perhaps too generously
in poetry, leave bare

the tree, its cankered burls
we’ve grown to live with
season after shorter season

shedding pages
to a southwest wind
before the storm

leaves us clean
once more to dream
the winter long

of green—yearning for
pastoral perfection
between each heartbeat

of littered pages—
we give ourselves away
to open space, to all

the new and wild beginnings
we’ve yet to see
until we learn to live in trees.


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