In the early light, complete stillness.
In the snow, two remaining leaves. At
first I think their quiver is because of
a small wind, but watching dawn creep
toward us, I realize they are trembling
because of the light. Nothing else moves.
I watch long enough to remember that
it is bowing to the sun during our night
that brings day. I stop, put down my
growing list and all I work toward.
It isn’t yet day, but the ground, the
snow, the broken limbs are coming
alive though nothing moves. There
is a forest inside that has its seasons
where everything grows by bowing
to the light. Why don’t I practice this
bowing? Now it is day and things are
beginning to move, squirrels, cars, the
furnace is coughing, the coffee perking.
And I don’t know what it is we need:
to work toward or to bow and quiver.