speckled May mountain
said a prayer for all that is gone,
bowed carelessly with devotion
to what is.
a small listing hut gives shape
to the whole valley - you are a hermit everywhere.
sleeping on straw,
you midwife all the wild roses
and swinging arcs of cardinals,
razor red in the smudged green canvas of trees.
your hands and thoughts are so clear,
they must be integral
to this dream fabric.
look! a sleepy vice sits with rusty bolts,
perfectly still on a leaning table
between the lanky pines.
