Last Winter

There is no winter but she saved

two pomegranates for me

from the deer and the salt

winds. They grew into the window.

 

Each year there are more fields

let go to seed. She cannot

stop planting even as the green

up and envelopes her.

 

I must count each leaf, stroke

each new moss and name each.

I must sit in one place until

I have named and kissed each

 

thing and then I turn to the next

in my orderly radius and they keep

sprouting exuberant and I

am weary of counting the wildness.

 

I do not know the seasons

any longer coming as they do

endlessly or never: here I am

left counting the small and kind.