We find ourselves surrounded by the thing,
see it in flowers and our orchard trees.
The Lenten Roses turn like fasting souls,
the Bleeding Hearts lean breaking in the fog.
Pale plum buds that we peel with little knives
show Christ’s five wounds, each blossom like a brain.
Under our eaves, the robin’s muddy nest
spills raving chicks, each pricked by their half-quills.
The forest keeps close counsel, shrugs warm light,
the fawn’s green rib blooms fungus in the rain.
Fresh moss chews shingles, shamed trees bow away,
and every little gift comes at a price.
Now when we walk, we walk like in a dream.
Understanding nothing. But we know what it means.

Two poems listen keenly to the language of nature’s seasons.