Late winter wattle makes the day more tractable 

as if somehow seasons on a plant 


replace seasons of unimaginable

light, of which, I know, I am


supposed to be grateful for. Therefore I swallow 

the language of ancestors. The obvious Latin loiters


in the carved-tear leaf of green inlaid with blue

and in my grandfather’s hand …


isn’t what you know it’s what you do. 

I suspect a lack of faith is part of the charm. 


The bees enjoy the wads for what they are.

A far more Germanic philosopher


might notice how the bark gets slightly darker

and craft a message of the amber sap


as it spills to solidify. It hardly matters 

if there is such brightness in the dark. 


It is not instructive, not an omen, but a knot of winter

wattle. What else do you want?