Sometimes a black hand reaches out from
under the earth and grips my frozen lungs.
Pulling them down and squeezing,
until a drop of something feeds it misshapen mouth.
At home, the baby and the bathwater
are the same shade of gray.
In the late March morning
the first light turns the tree tops red…
In the next pause, a
space, where the tree
asks the rock, “May I?”
With such politeness, any request is granted.
There’s no I that can die.
There’s as much beauty in the field
as in my breath, high or low
the little red boat stays afloat.