[I can't remember if I've ever posted this. I used to write poems all the time; this fell out one morning and stayed lodged in my brain. I remembered it this morning, so you can read it if you'd like.]

And suddenly again how normal it is that everything's screaming green, that everytree's swaddled in mutebright leaves. Through the chart of glass or the impenetrable gas of that most fair, their shuffling and huffing is enticement and grace.

This is nowhere near enough, and leaves are allwhere near their ghosts, who folded and fell and ascended to the xylem hall of heaven — which is spring — or the winged stomach of heaven — which is on the move — or the downy grey fuzz of freshloam surl, earthy kids ready to roar slowly forth with tender shoots from stomped-on mounds.

The cat's claw churns the earth.
Inventured farmhands rake the weeds.
Being this lonely sure is hard work.