this poem contains a bird
– or perhaps two –
being circumspect things,
they perch first upon
the edge of the gutter
above my head
to survey the wood-slatted,
peeled-paint valley
of the porch below –
seed on the other side
and if I am still enough,
and if I do not move
from my hidden roost
of the door frame,
they will brave the gap
– landing in tandem –
and allow me to write them
© Sarah Whiteley
tonight, there is more color
rising in the leaves
of the vine maple
than there was
just this morning
of this I am certain
just as I am certain
that when I brush the tops
of the tomato plants,
they will smell
like tomato plants
certain also that
the white cabbage butterfly
will choose to light upon
the curls of kale
over the wild mustard greens
and that when the chickadees
fly deeper into
the darkening branches
of the cottonwood,
this day will end
of this I am certain
© Sarah Whiteley
that Thursday morning,
while ordinary elsewhere,
emerged here with such joy –
so bright and thick,
one could lean upon it
an homage to light,
the bending heads of yarrow
and the exuberant flash
of fireweed rose late
above the grasses with
grace beyond speaking
it is just as well I left
my voice at home
© Sarah Whiteley
so cold, not-quite-rain
hisses through the husks
of the locust pods
later, this ice will gentle
into hushful snow –
which absolves all,
forgives everything
and for a blessed hour,
every branch will
outshine the moon
© Sarah Whiteley
on new snow, I inscribe
only footprints –
there being nothing
that the leaves have not
already said
© Sarah Whiteley
there is a pause
at the final turning
of November,
before the season
firmly closes,
that may be entered
if the juncture
between foot and path
is timed just so
there stillness rests
in cool absolute –
a mantle of calm,
a lesson in breath
© Sarah Whiteley
that silver morning at Shi Shi,
the chill we rose to a mere shade
of the deeper cold to come
we’d had visitors in the night,
our tents encircled by prints –
two sets surveying our strangeness
then breaking away to wander
to the edge of the sea,
twining in close loops together
we followed with our coffee
trailing steam from our mugs –
careful not to efface the evidence
© Sarah Whiteley
I do not count them, the trees –
instead, I walk into them
as one does into sunlight
or into unexpected joy
along the needle-softened path
here I am most at home –
drifting like birdsong
beneath and between
the glad immeasurable
© Sarah Whiteley
I wake before the wrens
so that I can hike
alone up the rise
and watch the gold
of new light arrive
and each time
there is a pleasure
in its crunching
beneath my feet like
bright, brittle ice
© Sarah Whiteley
at the sill, I count
birds like blessings –
even the wisp of a junco
with the withered foot –
both of us recite
the words for sky
© Sarah Whiteley
ebbtide 