The winter trees are stronger than I am,
the bristles, another species looking toward the spring.
The dead zone approach of winter fuels the year,
the pantry full of food, the monarchs
in the college butterfly sanctuary on their way south.
Why did I question myself,
the world is in my hands if I plant a bean
or go to the bank. The inverse of having whatever
I want is to let go of everything,
but the geese return every spring, the compass,
the map laid inside the water tells everything to grow.
I could take a picture of my hands
on the cold cement floor of the bar,
the prayer of my body lurching toward the ground,
the sacred mist in the middle of a small town.
Hello. I whisper into the light,
I don’t know who I am, but I know what I’ve done,
the flowers walk out of the florist with my touch
on their petals, witness the smile.
JOHN GOSSLEE edits PANK and Fjords Review. He directs C&R Press. johngosslee.com