When I returned Noe
to the earth and she sent

her staccato of sweetness up
into the unending sky,

I was not yearning
for more than I was given.

Then the blueberries got
to chattering all along

the lattice of the deck and
you rose from your empty

decade, your margin of darkness
to reach a bracken arm in.

Volunteer is what they call it
when a plant chooses you.

I did not know how to be chosen.
You showed me how the husk

of an old life becomes a chorus.
You showed me receiving

could be as simple as holding
up my empty hands.

Posted by kind permission of the poet.

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