Twigs, shadows dot the field.

Cells, their sympathies
in balance—respiration, vasomotion, reflex
—ready to split, the cold air
to enter in.

Leaves bound at the tips
of their branches; the trees, their reaches.
I am left wanting debris.

Like the Easter miracle, something from the ground
pulses, moves stone.

The taut belt of stratosphere
stretches thin and life-
long. I lie beneath leisure.

Veins of tree bark.
A purple rope like a bracelet.
Dads and their tummies, their tight little frames.
Sheepdog, leash lost, her fur
wet and collecting at the snout.

Twigs. Strewn over the grass
like dice. I am like this dirt

in that I am hard and fertile.
When I’ve lost, I’ve lost completely.