Black Trumpets

If I could take the whole forest into my hand,

Tanoak, madrone, and the spicy essence 

Of a lone fir tree,

And squeeze it out into a single drop:

The liquor of dark, damp soil,

Moss and rocks.

Then let this droplet flow carelessly

Down some small trickle of winter’s remains,

Gather it up,

Warm it gently,

And partake of the world,

This place,

A moment captured.