- 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.
