Where snow quilts the back pasture,
where cows huff and blow
sweet breath of leaf and blossom,
where chickens hunt ticks
and our children trade pinecones
for lovers, we see what’s there,
what’s gone. No sorrow in growth.
Summer passes. Dawn comes. Dark follows,
stars scattered on her tuille wrap
like sequins, like glimpses of joy. We hold
nothing in closed hands. That’s the rule
for growth: Let go. Let go. Let all go.
