Caulbearer

Yucca brevifolia

Pheasant and nuthatch, five-petaled flower,

                 emerald feather suspended in veils—

we don’t know how long the world can hold

                 such specimens of tenderness, how far

the glacial drifts can ferry such tombs,

                 immaculate, before they themselves turn

into ghosts—Everything writhes before the dream

                 discards what it calculates for reduction:

and yet the yucca moth delivers its eggs

                 inside the flower, even as leaves sharpen

their bayonet-points. At dusk, we scan the horizon

                 for anchors and tents; we lean into the wind

hungry for the brass tinkle of hawk bells

                 and the trance-like drone of hegelung.

If we split these reeds down their length,

                 how many of us can ride out the coming flood

before sunlight returns or we’ve softened into moss?

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