Note to Erin on Some Details of the World
The aroma of the wild roses is, in sheltered places,
as thick and sweet as some pink fluid coating
my throat, with a faint fraction of decay, at the verge
between almost too much and more, please.
As I come to the best raspberries, a deer crashes off
into the shadows. I don't think they eat raspberries;
it just happened to be there. I sit above the waterfall,
and light comes down through openings
in the leaves, reflects off ripples in the pool,
and back up, onto the leaves' ribbed undersides,
this far from the sun now, pulsing like pale banked embers.