Every morning I walk softly and with forward glances
down to the ponds and through the pinewoods.
I have gone every day to the same woods,
not waiting, exactly, just lingering.
I have thought sometimes that
something – I can’t name it -
watches as I walk
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
Later, lying half-asleep under
the blankets, I watch
while the doe, glittering with rain, steps
under the wet slabs of the pines
These are the woods I love,
where the secret name
of every death is life again – a miracle
Someday I’ll live in the sky.
Meanwhile the house of my life is this green world.
In the book of the earth it is written:
nothing can die.