I lower my head to their stems. Sometimes
I ask questions I did not know I had.
Sometimes they ask. I listen. I watch them
Open broad green leaves that follow the sun
And blossom a drop of water to say
Yes, the day was good—the sun bright, soil
Wet enough. I stand beside them, hands stretched
Above me, and wonder what I reach toward.
I see winter coming, feel the exchange
Of leaves for ice, transparent skin, a death
I want to believe is only sleeping—
That we will all return next spring, their roots
Waking in the rain and the mud, my feet
Feasting on the warmth of the opening earth.