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Morning
is the color
of a blueberry,
emerging behind,
then everywhere.

Docile, small, quiet,
then lighter blue.
It all happens on its own.
First on its edges,
then in speckles everywhere,
wildness shows itself
without shame
—all doom and dazzle.

Death is the opening of a
soft circular. Unfurling.

And so life becomes life
and the colors of birds
change with the season.

Things have a way of
becoming, saying to no one:
We are in company;
Nothing belongs to us.

The river moves against
its own bottom stone
and in the field, a yellow
dandelion shakes loose its prayers.

Things gone to earth and seed
—restless blue-black hunger
from the soil and earth—
until the hands become seeds again.

Terry Heick, 2025