something that explains the morning sun to me the way this morning arrived...
Distance as the Story of Plenty
by Erin Lambert
If the landscape has a pattern then it begins with your wrist,
between the radius and the ulna where it finds the will
to consider the oak and the wheel before inhabiting your pulse,
the heavy signature of a river, or hollow stubs of cornstalks
left to winter. If the mountain wanted to write you
of the many cries concealed within its famed anatomy,
or the bold and plentiful vision inherent to trees, perhaps
how even light finds its valleys come morning, it would have to
begin by conceding that it still cannot comprehend
how the crow is in everything, the caw so essential to the air,
though it would know the decisive knife strokes imbedded
in the flight, and how it was first conceived from the violet
of the evening, then cradled by the cold’s incalculable distance.