Each time I pace this route
I see new offerings
3 doves, the gloss of the holly
if there is a time to feel mortal, it is now.

all the plums are forming, an altar under a tree
a bottle hangs on a branch
We better pray, better pray
for a bubble of fresh air

turn their up golden faces and hands
stretch their pale fingers
looking for leaf skeletons under
a tree with no name

see the tracks of animals
the knot protrudes and encircles itself
nameless, dropping fruit
a succulent pricks up like a hedgehog

2 finches on a wire, one red, one brown
I’m reminded the female is plainer
the man who makes the music is moving on
his talents are wasted here

do you know about eucalyptus flowers
or the stones tiny hands are painting?
fungus like oysters on a tree stump?
and the moss that hangs from a stale pine

Each time I pace this route,
I see new offerings