Who are we but the fourth shock wave circling
in the torrent storm of our own fragile
expectations, the gaseous light exiled
in particle after particle, trickling
over the languid Maple leaves heavy
with the clarity of abundance, bulbing
like minor planets in the morning dew. Holding
nothing but the desire to steady
all our erratic twitchings in the green
nebulous swirl of swamp water. Who
wouldn't dream of the mystery of pure self-
consciousness, the watermark along the seam
of a fallen Birch, marking the memory of "You"
and "I", and new life waking in the snow-melt.
