So Much More to Seize

You search out the reason why

pen finds paper, words urgently


flowing; some burst pipe beneath

a dusty road leading into the woods


where sun barely dapples the trail

and frogs chant beneath ferns


last night’s beaver trees jutting white

candles along the river bank


trees rubbing their scraggly limbs

fracture sunbeams, tattoo your hand


the way black and blue scratches dance

onto rumpled pages in your pack


you’ve yet to discover the driving force

the /why/ elusive across the years


words snaking into lines and strophes

full of the detritus of ordinary days


like the way you drove down a road

this morning remembering the spring


trickling down through the leaves

the one you wanted to rock, line


crumbling banks with stones rounded

by years and its transparent flow


how you would leave some tumbling

over the shelves of shale to ensure


the singing would go on before

it merged into tea-dark water


at cliff’s base and you’re writing all of this

as  you mechanically miss the eight deer


crossing the road, slow to wait for

the three Black Angus trying to remember


where the gate might be that they passed

through earlier in the dawning


and when you see your words bound

into books, you scarcely turn the pages


because they’re over, they’ve been

products of the past and there’s so much


more to seize and hold in  your hand

like a baby bird fallen from the nest


in the windblown ash that there will

never be enough time to say why.