poem 67 of a poem a day for 2012

tidal spawn Ostara

each turn 

of the wheel

in the trees

is another 

meniscus,knees

ripe with the warm 

viscous flow

what we know

when we all come to  

a boiled on through

the maple sap 

that's running capped 

this early odd

bucket collect of

each drip spill pattern

we read with what 

the Sun has dissected

like leaves in empty cups

each time we climb

the dissipated bleeds

of early March 

those nights 

wearing the tines 

wearing the needs

we cling to with hope 

all Winter in the reeds 

like eggs and their

bright colored escapes 

all the same blisses

as teapot nestled hisses

and the trestle stopped

depot sounds in the dark

we lean against the 

freight whistles

and the windows 

for the wilderness 

again to be inside

where our prayers

chant for Love

to be what every

tomorrow sows

into our bones

EJR (c)