It was not until I cleared the underbrush

I saw unfurling monk-like bodies of ferns

It was not until I walked the lonely pond

forsythia fronds and red bud bloomed in the water

It was not until I raked the wood ash

I could see hellebores hiding deadly roots

It was not until a fog-swept full moon

renewed the lack where

an ambushed shock of love can attack

It was not until I abandoned the computer

stepped outside with brush and ink

drew this poem on your upturned palm.