The Hard Will

in summer’s dry, fire-prone hills     the yellow light
that framed the landscape.

in another version, the tall weeds that felt the doe’s teeth.

snakeskin shed by the side of the trail     tail feather of crow.
the correlation between what turned up and what was chosen.

some days more stone than path

as when the caterpillar’s sack
remained sealed on the stem of the fennel.

yet, the wild grass at my feet     wiry fistfuls of sun and seed.
a rustling of stalks.     the sound of a hawk circling.
churning of clouds.

stillness that became an echo negating itself
at each repetition.

when did it arrive     as from some faraway place     the hard
will to separate moment     from moment     here
from there.

I can’t stop to inhale the rosemary’s fragrance because
the clover     the wobbly shapes of bees.
the wavy-haired girl will be the friend I love best     not you
in the blue sweater.

as though to gather it all in my arms
would be to unwittingly crush     some missing part of it.

what breathed in those hills     the air
having ceased being communal     the portion
no longer belonging to me     in whose lungs did it move.

what is it to grieve what we didn’t even know to look for.

bright key of dawn.     wall of pollen you see through at dusk.
the intricate ballet of the migrating sandpipers.

and on a city street the random glance exchanged with a stranger.
how much it mattered     that instant of being seen.

just knowing the rain could at any moment alchemize light
into a band of colors     would you look up?