Hollow the hour, if you can. There’s always a little more
light. Like chlorophyll summons sun
through leaves, shade brings green, grants the dirt bright
spots that would sound acoustic if they could.
Here here here here here
here here here
Walking springs the mind a river,
a swath of breath. Remember that
there is no why, really. Only a pebble
to pick up and hold. Turn it over in your palm.
Make it the warm you are. Take it home
to the hours of late light from a Western
window. Place it in water on a plate
underneath the mint plant that leans
onto the screen, a whisper if it could: “dapple”