Looking down; the criss-crossed twigsof the living and the dead:
the seedless cone, the pink flower beside
spiking buds like caterpillars hatching;
one might almost be one year older.
These woods lie open now in possibility.
Only the deepest streams still run
here. Here where wet winter winds
topple trees complete to spread their root
without earth: the bluebells, ancient
as the stars, grow against the vertical
in this shadowless transition, weak sun.