Don’t be afraid to consider the gossamer,
the shimmering
the sheen of bird wing,
the shapes of the light on the snow.
Feel in yourself
the cloud become rain,
the fox lay down prints,
the white froth of water gathering up the shore.
That you feel it at all is a miracle,
improbable as the soft crowd of the peony
or the grace of the fiddlehead’s curl.
Look at your eyes in the mirror.
All the stories of years are in them:
transparent.
Now, don’t be afraid of your audacity,
should you decide to name the ineffable
as the spine of your life.
