Stepping Westward

What is green in me

darkens, muscadine.

If woman is inconstant,

good, I am faithful to

ebb and flow, I fall

in season and now

is a time of ripening.

If her part

is to be true,

a north star,

good, I hold steady

in the black sky

and vanish by day,

yet burn there

in blue or above

quilts of cloud.

There is no savor

more sweet, more salt

than to be glad to be

what, woman,

and who, myself,

I am, a shadow

that grows longer as the sun

moves, drawn out

on a thread of wonder.

If I bear burdens

they begin to be remembered

as gifts, goods, a basket

of bread that hurts

my shoulders but closes me

in fragrance. I can

eat as I go.