The pond teems with life that has, presumably,
no desire to be anywhere other than here.
Trees love it so much they have fixed themselves
deep into the very soil of this place.
Ravens on the crag, wrens in rock nooks,
even the warblers self-isolate, uncomplaining.
So I learn from them, put down desire
for anything other than what I can find
here, on the croft, in the woods, by the shore,
in my garden, on my shelves, outside my mind,
and I bring it indoors, place it on the page:
grass leaves, fern fronds, caterpillars and weavils,
cheeps and trilling, tree buds, all working
on their poems, one green word at a time.