Plainfield, Vermont

      The trembling acres on those grounds
Were fit with trees as tall and tall
And swaying high from left to right
As far as I could see, they were.

      They lined the trails of whitest snow
That covered plains and hills atop
A frigid cold that seemed to pierce
The birds that nest so far and high.

      The coldest March I’ve ever seen
With branches stiff on highest trees
That threatened me with distant sounds 
Were ominous with every sway.

The plant

It’s the first day that I’m waiting

For my plant to grow.

The third times a charm, I

told my plant as

I grew impatient, “I’ll replant

You” I have said.

Once, I buried the pit of a mango

I could not tend to

And hoped the rain and hoped

The sun would.

“You should have

Told me” were words that my grandma

Uttered, and admonished,

I went to dig in her

Garden and couldn’t find it.

And afraid I tend to plant

Again and again,

Asking that an entelechy such

As a sprout of sewn seeds in any garden

In my garden grow.

From the Moon

The sphere

That becomes the sun, well

Not becomes the sun. It looks

Blue. From afar, that’s what we used

Thousands of years ago to guide

Our journeys; it looked like

A light to us from here.

Northern moon,

Southern setting sun.

That from afar you created our

North. South. East. West.

Where

Look

Now?

Where to go? The blinding light

Will guide me tonight.

Now

That I am walking on stone, gravel,

And rock. I see our moon, and

Rays in the day,

The cosmos, with which we arrive.