it is all poetry, even a dark morning
at the end of Fall, twisting oak branches revealed,
small birds and the last lacy leaves still holding fast
rivers and rivulets in the dirt after rain
also branch and curve like trees, and hieroglyphic
trails of mice and birds and bees make more metaphor
a cloudy sky is only dull when you don’t look
into all the layered meanings of grey and white
and catch the subtle motion of this dense, high mist
the rainbow rises and roots in forests of gold
we the lucky ones who find the shining treasure
no need for pockets or sacks to carry it home
a white bird with wide wings flying from wood to field
huge and silent, not a hawk, could it be an owl?
everything in me quiets to watch and wonder
Elizabeth, what do you need to do but witness?
why do you trouble yourself with judging your worth?
climb the mountains, stand in your backyard, it’s enough