It’s been a long sleep,
and I forget how to belong.
There were darker winters than this,
resting far from the gaze of a thousand eyes;
the trees taught me
that dreaming leads to growth.
What will it take to find new words,
coax the sleeping sap to flow?
Could I write your scent
into the first bursting buds of the magnolia
and your attention
into the skipping circles
that ripple on the pond.
Write your eyes into the silver bark
along the boardwalk path,
your questions into the birdsong
peppering the morning.
Could I write myself into the singing sands,
join the waves that compose only for the moon.
Could I write hope into the next histories,
bury the ones who trade life for power into the loamy bog
and raise soft voices high
into the exuberant sky,
a million new stars to sing us
back to the land.
