Along the way, she stops from time to time, to draw a penny from its woolen sack; as if to plant the earth with what's sublime she'll press it down within a sidewalk crack.
In the northwoods, the serene pulse of the lake greets buds and pollen falling under pines while bees hum praise from sunrise until dusk in this place of trees.
I halfway thought the wind would still be in them, but the little coppery chimes were full instead of spider sacs and dauber mud, gray-red from the airs of abandoned years and hard as a gem.