• for Thomas Merton

Write in the cellar.
Pens, frozen pipes
and roots,
to be something 
winter-planted, 
a hand-full, like 
the weight of
that falled-apart Finch 
you picked-up, late summer,
so surprised, 
a delicate word
so airy in your hand
that one would write
all night to fall to
be grasped again
by flight.