___
heron stills
its gait
to wait
in the shallows
poised
watching for
shadows
to wend
the cold
currents
under
the surface
___
that jammed
at the thought of itself.
You open the door
to reveal a gate you open
to another door—
The morning sun
slants into me,
a sharp fire in crisp air.
By night,
I was ashamed to cry
into your chest.
___
rock of islands. Upstream, plovers
pipe the ploughheads of beaks
into mud for invertebrates. Can you
see trees walk? Can you see beneath
the mud, into the fishhold word
plover? Can you see a door’s
fleshhood swell against its jam?
___
between
stasis and
patience
gapes
awaiting
water’s
return
or the calendar
days I count
until
it is humid
between us
until you
jump into
the water
until I
again can
warm
my ear on
your neck
___
you will splash, the drops
will kiss the earth
with diamonds.
At home I open all the doors
to let in sea-liquor, wind,
songs of the birds whose
names I have yet to learn.
___
to their island rocks.
& the herons release
their jeweled shames.
& the world invites us
to stillness.