Night is an interrogative. The owl’s questions
float in the glen where shadows voiced
by the articulate moon stilt their own ground,
measure the trees for graves. The back
of the interrogatory toad bunched in field grass
fouls with its scrawled lozengy
my push for ornament, my desire to align.
Leaves in conclaves ask what will I do in life
after goodbyeing twilight and joining their elopement.
I lie in new milkweed troweling out of zigzagged straw.
The butterflies and blooms aren’t back yet
nor are my hands stained from opened pods,
but their seeds will include me in their count.
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Featured image: Full Moon Night by Bentretea Picam. CC license.