Mountain Aubade

Inside    a    blue-cupped    palm,   yellow    tipped    mountain,    wild    dogwood,     pine

strengthening

in the wind that rocks it. Broken-limbed oak with its spider silk and pale gray

spring shoot.

Where one way is blasted, four more branch. The earth keeps pressing me

with good news.

I’ll go on answering with this skin, these eyes, this tongue. Cold dawn lovers,

here  I am.