Of winter's exit wounds. Of swollen buds and their secret rooms. Of the night's invitation to shoulders and chilly hands. Awake. Allow. Of dew-wet licks on morning feet. Of ground softening. Of standing wither-deep in the impatience of creeks. Of box turtles. The bees' uneven cursive. Of pine sap tattooed on forearms and of heavy-headed peonies dodging the shadow play of oaken sentries. Of sheltered skin, freckling, coming on like the leaves of October. Of love's cheating with careful abandon. A kissed photo. What cannot be found until the first firefly. The delivery of summer's woodsmoke. Of skinny dipping as the moon floats nearby. Of perennial ghasso. Blue racers in lake-flicked grass. Allow. Unscripted trees and shores and dunes. Of distance. Of cedar cabins and waxwings. On water. In woods. Allow. My hummingbird heartbeats chest to chest. Of summiting. Of hunger and sweat. Of lavish blue, calling. Of August sand turning cold at night. Silos filling with shorter days and scalped crops. Of maples on fire. Thistles signaling death and migration. Green to gold to grey. And frosted tombs. Of hunters. Allow. December's iced focus on oblivion. Of spindrift. Of snow shovels and effort. Of sleeping under all the blankets for once. Days and days and days of outstretched granite. Of irrepressible darkness. Of tracks in the snow erased already. Pining east. Praying for light. Straining to remember the heat of being near. Of meeting eyes. Of anticipation. Of allowing the rise and fall of all that must.