Aubade in April
What angle of vision do I need
to see the two does in the orchard
as angels wandering across the centuries
of fallen apples, tiptoeing into this moment,
into our eyes meeting like notes
converging into a chord
as a late snow fills last year’s
bird’s nest with white orchids?
Time’s only the ticking of a woodpecker’s
beak against a tree behind me—
hunger being one way we awaken
to this world, wonder being the other.