Laurel, the words would just refuse
to come, hiding awkwardly
in the briar
.                        behind leaves.
.                                                          I want to pluck them
like pearls from under the oysters
in their shells, taking them
as my eyes,
.                       so I can see
your light carving an arroyo;
so careful and concise
.                                               in the forest
that line this fertile green valley
slopping,
.                      side to side,
front to back, turning away
in the rain and sun
that won’t flow up;
.                                         but reaching in to grasp one
would carve deep in my skin
the memory
of my blood moving
across the others,
.                                     obscuring them
in its search for down.

My hand is as steady, maybe
you’re just surer
of the dark
entangle of thorns
and thought,
.                          surrounding
the melody like a heartbeat
that would drive us insane
.                                                              if it was
persistent as the urge
to hold these words
in a search for healing.