taije silverman

                                                                   That trace of light

against the hills will spread through trees, undo

the ends of evergreen, then fall to fields. It will not hold.

As if it means to urge us, look. Love’s body must

be manifold. Black cricket shell, new summer air,

late light. The landscape’s all ablaze

with gentle strangers. Look. We’re standing in a field.


                                                                from “On Joy”