Before this breeze brings the fog,
already carrying the low moan
of opposing horns — north jetty, south jetty, north,
and three notes repeated
on the wind chime —
I stand near tulips
pink as the lining of a conch, the only music
a goldfinch in the burgeoning cherry,
like heralding the first tree, petals
finer than a newborn's eyelid, transient as breath.
Old sun chased the moon up this morning,
waning sliver insubstantial as rumor.
An inconceivable miracle, rock in orbit
revolving on the spindle of seasons—my part,
a witness, looking over my own shoulder.
Write that down.