Light fragments the creek.
Mayflies dance
in new warmth
and the shifting canopy is rife
with call and response
across octaves.
Staccato, trills, decomposed chords.
Bullfinch, sparrow, thrush.
So many things reach out.
The sun spot-lights them in turn
while viscous air exudes communication
from alder and ash,
bluebells, lilac, honeysuckle.
All are eager to spread their truth
like teenagers without shirts
that glow nearby, impatient
to remove barriers and
address the world,
despite lacking words.
The ground grows confident, emergent.
No longer mud-slicked from months of rain
-you never could quite get your footing-
it is now firm, so you can change direction,
launch yourself.
Later it will calcify, crack from sun,
but today the moisture is still rising,
making everything supple.
So you decide things,
you make brave plans.
This grand communion
is like the remembered pull of a dance floor,
but I don’t dance anymore.
All I can do is write.
Not New Year’s
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