19 jan

He is the opening cords of every song.
He is the sound "sh."
He is the tree held up by stakes,
  He is the stakes being whittled down to size.
He is inside the rough, back-and-forth motions of the pocketknife as it scratches off the bark.
He is the red, callous hands of the blade-wielding woodsman.
He is the brown,
     the deer,
          the drowning,
                the dirt.
He never leaves footprints,
but he always leaves early--
He is the soft light of dawn,
                              never here for very long.
We remember him but we do not
  yearn for him, we do not live for him.

He is the dead, brown shrubbery pushing through the melting snow,
                         all bent, no direction,
                                  no preconceived intent.
Oh, but he's reawakening, it's almost spring,
                   he's growing above everything.
We take out the stakes and he does just fine.