she offered waning moonlight before releasing
me, prematurely. now the tree breath
and the justice in a feathered wind
comes home to me.
I limit nothing step by stance
taking a chance and finding
present tense. if only she
(but I worry here, as well, even without her).
morning repeats itself.
the daily surge of new surprise
bespeaks her readiness as purity.
I talk to her when daylight is still fresh.
and what she says back has no language now.
I listen anyway. she says never to
give up on any breathing
thing, the full subject of worship is its dance.
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