A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking. Cynthia Briggs Kittredge

not knowing what to cry

      I had to ask for years and years,

      shall I?

      Throw myself off

      Fall a shooting star

      streaked naked light

      flesh a phrase

      in the night, visible,

      back to dark.

      Can I?

      Dare with trembling ink

      to spill to mark to soil

      blank white wilderness

      erase the possibility

      for anything else to grow

      there but that. But you.

      Indelible.

      Open my lips make me a mouth

      inhale air prepare

      wait at the edge