the teeth of a glacier live. My fingers
caress what became smooth from the rough.
My father’s voice echoes in the fallen tree’s rings.
A ring is a year–
in each ring:
listen! the story of a year.
When Even the Inanimate Seem to Rise and Fall With Breath
It’s that time of year in Maine–
same time six years ago
when together, we fell in love with this bit of rocky land
after one traipse around its woodsy path,
one round trip down the gravel road–
that godly time in May in Maine when even
the inanimate seem to rise and fall with breath–
when along the road fiddleheads still knot tightly into fists,
the grading truck now come and gone–when you can hit fifty