5/2

What brought
this ungloved hand
to the cold ground
wet by mud and spring,
the dark mossy firs,
a ravel of choice
twining round, unchoosing.
The rain arrives.
The nothing,
the buried stones,
the still cold bulbs,
conscious
from which we are
as a seed grows
empty of thought,
but intentioned
arising
between the thistles
as the switchgrass
bends