light hasn’t climbed
dangling from the last guiding star
no sound no frost no sun
no edge to presence
like spring tides like breathing
like the love you can’t hold
such a dawn exposes roots
that twist and draw
a sky-tangled tree the blue-green blush
and each slippery horizon
from an open ground
made quietly fruitful
by every time's returning.
Words long to wrap around it
but not yet.
There’s a criminality in black and white.
And all that drains
into the shining
as she comes dressed in pearly grey
like the field in which we do our work:
clearing fences and rutted tracks
and whatever gets broken by summer.