the eloquence of woolly bears

it is what i feel when the darkling sea spreads
the flow endearing itself to me, deep inside
my veins cool, my bones warming, as it presses in there.
my awareness aroused, it rises to the surface
cascading over the edge—a rush out of the gloaming—
pooling at my heels.

the words we utter are the entirety of what we are—listen
to the sound—but they are nothing, really, measured against
the eloquence of black-striped russet woolly bears shuttling
across the path giving deafening praise to hibernation

or

nothing 

compared to the way the red maples fill me: those trees
covered with purple, the ones next to them pink
over there, yellow, and these at the end
resounding red and orange, the serenade
of their saffron-pumpkin-lemon-pomegranate leafsong rising
up and up. no mere tra-la-la—how do they manage that?
aren't they all the same kind of maple?—but wondrous
notes marked in the spaces within
the sweet lines of air scaling the sky.

i am so small.

it is what i feel when i realize this: if i walk
through a forest, stop in a bright clearing, scatter flower seeds—
any species foreign to the resident bumblebees—i will become
a witness to the infinite cycle of existence.
it is no secret—
bees will visit each flower that unfolds herself
explore every one, even the strange ones.

always.

i am left speechless.