No shadows here, but shawls of moss
above our heads.
We woke to a revision of daylight,
no slant to give hour
or direction. The hush of our voices
carries the dimness.
From the bed of a fallen tree: a blossom
overnight, and we kneel to gaze
at its lavendar center, a gravity
Moments long but cushioned,
we can’t account for time, or luck
at staying dry all night where rain
falls eight days of ten. We wait
as if for a signal,
some slight motion we should leave
before rains settle in without rhythm,
distilling down through the canopy
here where everything is watershed
into the concentrated present.