I believe in a blush in the thicket
the gurgle-lute upstream
the potentially legible scratchings,
visible in mud, invisible in dust,
I believe in the pious scent of sap
harrowing bark to a sheen,
the crumpled auburn leaf
pedalling through variations,
light from light, one substance,
the scoop of a burnt-out oak.
I believe in the rain, the mist,
and the drizzle, glazing
the white tops of mushrooms,
which are buried and which rise
from the suffering of wood-rot,
for their mycelium has no end.
I acknowledge autumn
for the remission of chlorophyll,
and seek out the yellow blemish
of buds unfurling the world to come.