Alphabet of Days (21b)

21.

Under the pear tree
two butterflies are speaking
Their yellow wings follow
the morning as its wet stones
shrink from grass blades
and the beautiful soaked
smell of earth vaulted thin
by words too frail to carry
this day into the silent blood
of my head In the distance
a woodpecker drills her life
into the dark grains, hollows
the air with possibility