Now, dark stalks stick up like quills sending chills down the earth’s spine.

A forest’s bellowing wind shakes the daisy’s grave, 

and one last leaf departs with the howl. 

January’s unyielding pinch turns mulch to stone underfoot and around root,

leaving petrified stems to meditate on winter’s inevitable softening.

Now, I watch the barren canes tremble but never fall, aborted of their petals

tracing circles into my palm until my supple August flesh gives way to what is raw and open to January’s petrification. 

I watch my last leaf tear away into the swell of a frostbitten gust.

I meditate on my inevitable softening. 

Now, the heap of daisies sags with dew, alit in Sun’s gentle gaze. 

She is just peering into the garden, a squint in dawn’s countenance. 

Lavender lazes by, slung over the shoulder of a passive bumble bee.

Pollen and rosemary and sweat fill my breath 

as Sun gives them each a sweet kiss. 

Come August’s reckless swell, she will jump on top of them, 

holding them down with a passionate smooch and a wayward grab.

But as of May, she is still shy from her winter of celibacy. 

Now, delicious breeze trickles through my fingers and behind my ears

I sway, meditating on this easy softening. 

Through the clearing to the water’s edge…

But the water has no edge

Or, the edge has no water

Yesterday’s pond is today’s boggy clearing

As the sun has sweated off the last pools, leaving only squelch

I walk to the pond’s deepest depth where I have never stood before

What if I lay stones in dancing patterns?

What if I lay down right here, with the stones in my pockets,

And remain here when the waters come?

Not to die, or to take away a pain, 

but to leave some mark where I could never go before