the singing knives

concerned with my breathing, see the several ribs rise and fall together; take the breeze smelling of blueberries and strawberries deep into the hollow cave of bone.

I am that poet that was dead one time and have returned, decking my skeleton again with festoons of spring; have returned, bringing you this word. O it is the right shape for your lips:

that buried bones may rise again, that one lying breathless may take up his bed and walk, and climb into the tingling sun; and the slow heart may quicken like a bird, and the brain make its honey like a hive of resurrected bees; that you and I are alive, alive, alive, alive.

Thistles open their velvety heads into the low light of a late northern evening. The hedges are wrapped in

wild roses and honeysuckle; blackberries' blooms wave over the footpaths. A single swift darts through the sun. Over the Western

horizon a strip of forget-me-not blue under a heavy rain-belt of clouds. Slanted sunbeams light the sheep

dotted, as if on canvas, over the inclined field in front, rain-bright green. My step falters.

This is the time to prepare, to find ways of making friends comfortable, without taking offence if they take more, or less than you offer.

Now is the time to prepare, to find ways of being comfortable with yourself.