I — Tree

This groundswell carries ideas—
up and up the roots it seeps:

sewage from a hard winter
beside spring's natural ambrosia,

and memories of seasons
that will become works of art.

The seasons come swiftly;
the seasons flee slowly—

and from each to each,
nature's pigments change me less.

So shine, sun; blow, wind; fall, rain;
whisper out my secrets;

touch your fingers to my wandering skin;
make this faded canvas beautiful.

II — Heat

Sometime very soon
I will warm her fingers,
for I have been gone too long
and she is cold.

My hands will be like hot glass—
and of uncertain shape.
She will be blind;
her eyes will be clouded.

Who's to say the difference
between dust and tears?

III — Sea

This is what displacement feels like:
a listless creature
with sad, awkward fingernails—
six-foot-one and curled up in a ball,
afraid of the waves
and the shoals
and the deep.

And normally I write about she
but she isn't. She just isn't.

It's me and the vast ocean—
the ocean will love me
but the ocean will love me—
it will love me forever.

I will be caressed,
I will be displaced,
and at once I will know if it is still childish
to put faith in magic and destiny—
but when I am with the ocean,
fingers half-buried in the deep,
head just poking above the surf,
it will be too late to believe.

IIII — Wisp

She is the air itself,
forever present, passive,
and gone, long gone—
like a brown leaf in autumn
it slowly drifts into a neighbor's yard
and eventually to a far off house
with a lonely light above the door.

In that house lives an old man
whose fingers can no longer hold a pen.