On Humility

ice in the grass of want:

queen of leaf-

 rot, I’ve let go—

after leaf-drop—

what I thought

 I needed, resolve

in the red oak—

wintering, I tuck myself in

 behind a slab of bark

while blue jays tear at

cells of pulp, consuming

what’s left of

 my dead—spring

is an instinct

that shall not

 rest—a tomb, a tone,

atone