box turtle road

Those buttercups that ran along the walkway

of your grandmother’s house, and the red begonias

she dug out of the ground every September

and brought into the warm kitchen, a woodstove,

a little table with flowers on it.

I could say this, hepatica in spring,

green fire upon a common grackle’s wing,

the first snow, a first kiss, the last wish,

fresh cherries in a China dish,

a hundred tree frogs singing in a swamp.

Everywhere we look the earth displays

a tenderness of purpose.

What can we do but open up our voices?