Under summer’s ripening eye
I wandered our holy golden hour,

studying its fern and fulsome youth,
learned to pour my voice down

this falling water. Paper birch burns
ruby, then snow to paper geese,

down each lake I sound the rolling slip of me –
under ice and gorge and silver tinker,

my hand warming the hand of my neighbor,
listening how the wind listens,

to become again the falling water,
outpouring ourselves to spring.