There is no winter but she saved
two pomegranates for me
from the deer and the salt winds.
They grew into the window.
Each year there are more fields
let go to seed. She cannot
stop planting even as the green
up and envelopes her.
I must count each leaf, stroke
each new moss and name each.
I must sit in one place until
I have named and kissed each
thing and then I turn to the next
in my orderly radius and they keep
sprouting wild, wild and I am
weary of counting the wildness.
I do not know the seasons
any longer coming as they do
endlessly or never: here I am
left counting the small and kind.