Bare branches aching for their green
under the silver of a cloudy April morning,
silhouette-like; I believe in the earth,
the shadows of her meanings
and silence of her light.
I sit quiet, too,
and something seeps, flows
out like a river carving my features,
the edge of my hand,
the lines of my lips,
the furrows of my brow.
Or, burrowing-through the air,
pinches and pokes the heavens
until the torrents fall
and make mud out from the mountains we would not climb.