For some of us poems
do not thrive nor breathe
without root, sprout, blossom.
Sky opens behind the winter
berry and each leaf of grass.
Your telescope’s curiosity
finds other galaxies, other
black holes and, all of a
sudden, dislocates wonder
from a particular scale.
After dark the salamanders cross empty
roads in Maine…a lone coyote walks
San Francisco. Someone saw a fisher cat,
feral, bristling, here on Lincoln Street.
When passers by grow scarce, birdsong fills
aria of cardinal, chickadee. The crow
seated on a tombstone flicks his tail and caws.
Pushed off by burgeoning leaves and wind
that tears and scatters, blossoms spill
from the cherry tree. The robin cocks his head,
listens for grubs that move beneath the grass.
A panther stalks Paris streets…
goats untether a Welsh town.
Pressed up against stillness, wild
breaks through to breathe.