GREAT BLUE HERON AT BURNETT BRIDGE

You took me in the sun
to your home-

town, to the tidal
marsh, to the bridge

where you jump

into me.
···
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.