For Mary Oliver
The alder twig skidded to a stop
on a hoar frosted slope
wearing winter bird cones —
ruffled, feather thick —
a delivery just as surprising
and indelible
as a sudden flash of wings
and as untamed
as the wind that brought it here,
a feathered forest
in a twig.
Now its curious shadows
soften
the glittered meadow
to reveal the world in glimpses
a bright multitude of beginnings
perched
in every ending.
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