When Nature needs to speak, she will
Reach into her washbag of wet roots
Pull back handfuls of filberts, gambol
The dice down a road
Lined with Black Locust trees
Roll down each toe
Bone to powder that once stood
Atop domains, believing
Its tread regulates it all
I’m wearied of pretending, she’ll say and reveal
All is deciduous wild under her
Control
Blood of habit, she outpours
Cream-honey
Down the thread furrows of bark
The hardest heartwood around
They line streets of every town
Shawls of armistice and other invasive growth
Hawthorne springtime, at last
Moon Bodies 