Language

for Donna de la Perrière

Each step
 jiggles green hedges.

Violet, blue
 wind covers

river light, birches.
 Textures wash

our bodies,
 which rise:

night inside roots,
 gold on a bright

red oak—
 inside you,

I am patience,
 a surge of heat

on a horse’s back,
 a salmon climbing

a tight stream.
 Give me the round

sky to suck.
 Slick-mossed roots

cup a rain
 pool: nurturing,

your throat
 holds cadences,

shadows, song.