Speaking the Visible

It is here we must begin the breaking.

The bones of hills lay dark against the sky

through trees, and we, our branches filled

with sudden birds, twitter in the rusty

light. We murmur through the tender greening

of quiet fields, rippling in hill shadow,

tearing into another form of blue.

And if we make the world in just one word,

what shall we say it is, that called us here?

Within the light of many suns, of stars

too distant to believe, we clutch our loss

as though we have no choice; though love unbound

flies freely. And in the wake of passion

where is it to go, this bird, this third voice

between us, this one always calling we?

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