Not the clearing, the woods.
Not the lesser magic of birds
thrown into the air, then gone,
but the 175-year-old Heritage Tree,
the great-great-great grandbaby
squirrel skittering where her ancestors
once skittered. Not the flowers,
but these unmelting candles,
who cannot leave the way they
came in. Oh woods, teach me
how to grow in stillness, how
to be a maker of the dark.