This morning is a kind
Of bright stab wound
Edging near the heart.

I follow the tilting pines
As they bend their masts
To the green rush of wind,
As the old, sun-dried skulls
Of strange animals
Disrupt the comfortable splendor,

My familiar province,
With their fantastic deaths.

I want to learn to whet the metaphor,
Make keen the forest’s unreal shadows,
Touch the ghosts of the elder cedars.

Like Bryant’s primal temple

I want to sink into the sleep
Of roots and sinews,
Partake of whatever elevating prayer
The dirt is always lifting
Into the soaking light.