When the catalpa full of leaves bends,
take your moment to remember praise.
I’m thinking of placing what has been
done for you under boughs of oaks.
They fully leaf their heft under snow,
as spontaneous recognition. In this
moment, allow this to rest inside you.
It isn’t prearranged, though it seems
so, like words that reach uncertain peace.
I thought of song shaved, as in cropping
the boughs. The first snow is heavy blue
underfoot, spontaneous as a wet neck,
prearranged as my will to share with you.
We bend and suffer. But the guest receives
our gestures and returns our bows.