somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

apostrophe
the nuthatch inserts itself
between feeder and pole
 

semicolon
two mallards drifting
one dunks for a snail
 

ellipses
a mourning dove
lifts off
 

asterisk
a red-eyed vireo catches
the crane fly midair
 

comma
a down feather
bobs between waves
 

exclamation point
wren on the railing
takes notice
 

colon
mergansers paddle toward
morning trout swirl
 

em dash
at dusk a wild goose
heading east
 

question mark
the length of silence
after a loon’s call
 

period
one blue egg all summer long
now gone