Here in the silence of November,
I tuck a little piece of my
beating heart
under a leaf; under a mushroom cap
to let it ferment;
maybe it will walk itself off,
dizzy itself clean, wild itself new,
maybe it will root itself pure

And in the snow and tumbled ash
of January, maybe it will curl around a seed;
nugget itself into something
that can grow; maybe my eyes
will spin me around,
and let me see the water run clear
Tuck a cap full of acorns into
my shoes and teach me how to
float, a red leaf in the wind, tracing
itself in the light that bounces
off a telephone wire 
Phoning home