When this season arrives,
a dark forgotten well
starts gushing again,
the creek bed in my spine,
marrowed with moss and
babbled with pebble song,
more local to the bone
than basil or thyme..
Lower than roots, my juice
still in its breathless stone,
I fall for a wanderer with
uncombed maidenhair,
a shepherdess reclining
on her elbow, dangling
fern fingers, sapling hips
of pine splayed from
a nurse log... Slow
as evening, gestures of
mushroom and cedar frond
conceal last summer's light.
Her feet are rain on
huddled wolves... She's thistle
in the apple's root,
a plum twig twisted in
her dream of seeds,
a secret fragrance I’d fast
and starve these thirsty lips
all Winter for, groping
toward the milk of her name...
Now friend, abandon words
and wander into the ground.

(A poem from 'Wounded Bud')