Returning

August,
I take refuge
in the thousand skies
of a single blueberry.
Late November,
I take refuge
in the cry of an owl
at midnight,
that tender greeting
of loneliness.
Heart of Winter,
perhaps January,
I'm not sure
where the heart is,
no owl,
only midnight,
I take refuge
in darkness.
Now the scent
of returning,
less than hyacinth,
a freshness laden
with ancient deaths,
wet moss stinging
my bare feet,
and certain of that sting
in all the ambiguity
of April,
I take refuge
in the glistening
turquoise throat
of a hummingbird.


Water color, berries by Andrew Wyeth