If I were going to love,
I would love in purple
upon a turtle’s back –
I would be the sun, warm
him until he smiled
and swam happy
through the cool
endless sea of stars.

If I were going to be loved,
I would be loved in green
like the son of a turtle
pushing out slowly
from the rubbery shell
and the darkness
until I too could know
the stars and sweetness
of an eternal sea.

In a cold strange field, not far to the south
a thousand chickadees chittering about
the stand of birch where now in repose
the 20 saplings and six healthy lay close

The first icy proclamation of this winter
calls a single night of storm a sinner
but madness is no sin and thus I weep
and watch and wait for my own kind sleep

Yes, thin bark and brittle wood uncut
all lay silent there, & there & there for what?

“There are no words but words,” I hear him say.
Is this some white truth or muddied Grey?

“There are no words but these,” says he.
“What then,” I wonder, “What of me?”

“There are no words and that is all.”
Is this true? Is man so small?

There are no words he shakes his head.
“Alas,” I say and we are dead.