A poem a day
In a child’s low hum
the run of a knife
along the seam of a fish,
barred sand at low tide.
In heaps of grass clippings
the flick of a mop on a sunny floor
a nest of mice packed like sausages
wind turning birch leaves silver.
In the points of a sycamore leaf
and the daisy’s stippled eye
the thrush’s immaculate stab
the bloom of lichen and sun rise.
In the vole’s pinhole camera eye,
the furred edges of leaflets,
the startle of sudden dandelion
the efflorescence of catkins.