December 12, 2007


The wind is not rude or indifferent, and even
as I delight in the minor drama of appositives,
I feel unlawful. Why make this April snow
a pock-marked body or the sun a governing eye?
Can we love the hill if it is not anatomical?

Now chickadees are at the feeder, wearing their
black caps and bibs. Ridiculous? Yes. But
how compelling is the jay if it is merely gray?
Or the goshawk simply northern?

Our signatures are written in the tracks of rabbits,
our punctuations in the shapes of rain. The road-
side spruce won't care if we call them honest;
I think there is no guilt or innocence
in the fervency of wanting to belong.

—Anne Coray
from Bone Strings (Scarlet Tanager Books)

Posted by dwaber at December 12, 2007 03:47 PM