Last Winter

There is no winter but she saved



two pomegranates for me



from the deer and the salt



winds. They grew into the window.



 



Each year there are more fields



let go to seed. She cannot



stop planting even as the green



up and envelopes her.



 



I must count each leaf, stroke



each new moss and name each.



I must sit in one place until



I have named and kissed each



 



thing and then I turn to the next



in my orderly radius and they keep



sprouting exuberant and I



am weary of counting the wildness.



 



I do not know the seasons



any longer coming as they do



endlessly or never: here I am



left counting the small and kind.