and in the shop…
“A Prism for the Sun”
“Mother of Pearl”
“Blue Horse of Morning”
On each train journey this winter I watch for the deer
to step from forest shadows into delicate light
where Christmas geese are folded on green ochre; there
the river runs black, cold as cut ice, perfect mirror.
If I let go the city handrail, open my throat like a thrush,
if I place leaves and moss inside my boots,
if I go to the official station and hand over my cards,
my phone, my keys and earrings, if I trust the route
I could still make something of this last light.
I would have to move silently between the white geese
sleeping heaped like white amaryllis, step slight
and empty over the icy bitten grass to enter
the clear early air, where the wary doe waits
to watch me close my eyes. Then I would be living
the lit green fuse, the wave and the particle, the poem,
the place where everything connects: the beginning.