So unexpected—
how accurate
the instructionless beauty
of seasons marching on their
invisible paths,
the wordless dignity
with which each year suffers
unto death and is replaced,
how lost I am
in the process of all this bigness,
on and on,
trying to describe
and sort it,
to synthesizes something of these
wandering threads—
only to chance upon
the remaining winter animals,
poor sparrows
and small brown rodents;
their secret caches,
their puffed-up looks of threat,
their bare bush fortresses
so worthy of defense
I don't even realize. I want
to apologize.
Let this be my
peace offering—I won't
say anything more about this.
