Copihue Poetry

I bent my head
at the American river
to lick a burst of berry
from your thumb
sweet thin cuts across the warm
table of the hand
whose tributes splay
darker on one side
more golden in the dirt
each with its choice
and note
an ambitious branch
or bruising pulse
with chasms to parse the edges of
with
web upon web of stratified tissue

across the low water
a floating field of yellow irises
then the massive oaks
concourse
of fungiform shadows
a lone, masting cottonwood
glowing in July noon
million catkins tussle
in midair
summer snow
a soft blur draping
one held
breath away from falling
to the path
then you
then the sun in my mouth