a great blue heron stills its gait to wait in the shallows poised watching for shadows to wend the cold currents under the surface
___
Once there was a door
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.
___
At sea, conifers climb roughhewn 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?
___
the gulf 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
___
The in-tide will return,
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.
___
& the firs cling to their island rocks.
& the herons release their jeweled shames.
& the world invites us to stillness.