vi. This Birch
Civility rises as this birch
lifts its face, and stretches.
There is remembrance in these limbs,
of wind, and rain, and mute kisses.
All the gestures of the branches say
the gifts I bring must be refused.
Let this tree be dressed as light allows.
Let it be white amid dark boughs.
i. Out of the Dark
The footprints I follow to my door
are mine, and the clutter on the table.
This poem is wrong, because I
have been straightening up for months.
Today when I woke, the air held
the packed silence of snow.
If you came tonight, out of the dark,
snow would slide from my roof.
mws 