My words, like late winter leaf buds,
whiten at the tips, wanting warmth. 
On frosty mornings, finding none,
they wait still under cloud and sun.

I have moments when I think I know
how words work in slow unfolding
or how whitening buds become green leaves.
Yet, little do I know of their deep mysteries.
 
There is a secret life of words and leaves
awakening out of hidden and hallowed places -
earth's cold dark and soggy beds,
the soggier beds of my own sacred being.
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Portland, Oregon - March 16, 2022