Rose Auslander
& this great world turns
from us, as we turn
on each other, small as the young swans puffing themselves up too near
the turtle laying her eggs, fragile
as the sound of sirens fading, as all that blooms & dies outside my window,
I bury seeds
& say inadequate words over them, weak as the high summer sun hanging over
naked soil &
those tendrils that root greenly
in my mind each night & wilt each morning, small
as the sacrament of breathing
the faint scent of seeds in dirt