Follow
Spring presses in, circling my
ribbed fences, leaping easily
to merry mud-track across the clean creased floors
of my itching palms
leaving grit to sit like a calling card
wedged between whorl and nail, addressing
the unnamed parts of myself.
I can’t recall
having left with the morning
compelled to squelch after it, toes woolly, odd-
knuckled beside the fish bellies of stones
and long, sinewy grasses
humming eager, wind-tickled tunes
of strummed elbows and skinned knees
but that’s where the ridge meadow rocks surface
in knobbed spines to summon the sun
as I empty my hands of their nameless
bony stories
to cotton winter spin in leaf mold graves
and follow, known only
to the season.
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