Barely awake from its long hibernation, packed tight: with an ounce of Clyde …

It was a blustery day and I found this poem on the beach.

You gathered the soil of the Southern Alps on treks through every version of moisture falling.

Dad hands me a warm rose petal, brown, around the edges, “Huh. Soft. Feel that.”

Ice sheathes the earth. A crystal illusion, held by surface tension …

First dry leaves rattle against my window. Then air howls and a low thumping begins.

Reluctant Stones pried from the earth, moistened by the sweat of artisans …

Don’t give your heart or bed to a tulip.

Down in the shadows still very still, she labors away, her widow’s hump …

You go away and the clock ticks louder and slower.

She came from a northern place—a place with shade …

When’s the last time you drifted along lost in the haze of a celadon glow …