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When did dapper cedar waxwing
put on his tuxedo for the berry feast?
Why did coyote flash his silver bling
in the moonlight?
How could you not notice
the naked alder drop her golden gown?
She sighed too softly.

And your garment of perfect happiness?
Weave it not from a thread of causation,
but breath - herringbone tweed
of past and future, twill
of star and gristle, intricate knit
of rainbows lining the dark cocoon
of your sankalpa, your secret vow.

Let it be one self-luminous
silent silken sutra, almost whispering,
"There is no other."
Friend, if you must go to war,
win it in your belly.

These woods, prairies, insouciant
ruined gardens of September,
have nothing to do with your disquiet.
They already celebrate
a victory of flowers.