we are a listening poem
our throats open to blood and downpour
our hair a mess of gray and almost silver
we take to the wind and thrive in rain
find that firm level of earth and stone
seek out the heart of the murmuring fossil
back out in the 40 acres near the road
we listen to the mule sing the dog sing
the goat the chicken the cow the grunting pig
we extract a poem from the leaves of the oak
we bind it with the paper from the birch
we sign it with sap slipping from the maple tree
late at night we dream it into night sweats
stifle our dance of snoring and heavy breath
wake to a day of gray matter and falling leaves