Some days, given my body’s
want for rest, it’s harder to rise
and welcome this ruthless world,
and step out into dawn’s dusty-
blue smother and the frayed fabric
of a late April sky but for the
pungency of spruce, the arcing froth
of meadowsweet and the haunting
acoustics of leaf-hidden birds –
their easy songs thrown from
their tiny throats, repeatedly falling
back to earth where they glisten
and accumulate while memory
stumbles on wanting to somehow
preserve them, like a precious orb
of amber or a rare petal pressed
between the pages of a book.