Spring presses in, circling my

ribbed fences, leaping easily

to merry mud-track across the clean creased floors

of my itching palms 

leaving grit to sit like a calling card 

wedged between whorl and nail, addressing

the unnamed parts of myself.

I can’t recall 

having left with the morning 

compelled to squelch after it, toes woolly, odd-

knuckled beside the fish bellies of stones

and long, sinewy grasses

humming eager, wind-tickled tunes 

of strummed elbows and skinned knees 

but that’s where the ridge meadow rocks surface

in knobbed spines to summon the sun

as I empty my hands of their nameless 

bony stories

to cotton winter spin in leaf mold graves

and follow, known only 

to the season.

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