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Written by Tom Sheehan
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I.
Listen.
The mercury
Is resolved.
Beneath
My hand the Earth
Passes a quick shadow,
Recollects
The distinction
Of a breath.
A new feather
Finds a warm wing
To grow from.
The cup
And the juice,
The Earth
And the seed,
Are one.
II.
The secret
Is the grip.
By the finger
Nails if need be.
Mostly by
A corner
Of the mind,
An edge
Where a root strikes,
Curls like
A rattler.
Sometimes
The heart
Is enough.
III
Later,
Past the next
Tense of mind,
We will think
Of now:
Grass clearing
Its throat,
Ground cover
Ripe of ballistics,
Your hands
At introduction.
IV
You will be
A poem,
A voice on a page,
A leaf rising
From the ashes
Of a winter tree.
If never comes
We shall never forget:
Grass ripe,
You rich,
Me urgent.
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