For eleven months I wrote to you
every day. Finally I learned to read
invisible ink, empty envelopes;
still I write. Words chase the pen
but never catch it quite, traveling
where we will know love
when pigs fly, when trees dance.
The pen scratches, the words glow
the page fills and runs
with a leaping color, pushing
fouled hard against the wellspring
to make its way
down the dark drain alone.
Out by the puncture-vine that mends the fence
as I mouth to the air the word forgive
I see two trees kiss,
their greentip lips grown close enough
at last to meet.
A litter of pines prudent parted at planting
having gathered seven summers, turn
weave and mesh, waltzing their small wildness
handfast, while in the sky
Karin Gustafson hosts tonight, and asks us to write a poem of the unexpected
Photos © joyannjones