Monday, June 14, 2004

Unwashed

the inchworm that fell
from half way up the pine
in the field
by the barn
into my open mouth
as I scanned the sky
for oriels.

I ran all the way
home
sure I would die
sure I swallowed him
whole.

In those days I was sure
of one thing: death.
I was sure it waited
in quiet fields
nestled between the tall
thin trunks of pines
and under rocks
beneath the bellies of
snakes.

I saw the possibility
of the absence of
all things
in all things.

In the beauty of a moment,
the baby sparrow landing
so near
my seven-year-old fingers
I touched him,
the sweet stained
smell of the manure pile
and the dust from the
curry comb
after grooming.

In all my moments
loss waited,
waits.