Right up to the Lip

A six-point wood torch of fused green fire
Burns in the sun on the stones. Bright tree,

We would like to ask you if you mean,
Which is what we do, like it or not,

What we have to do to code for you.
We could claim you stand for what we say.

We could dance in a crowd of rare nouns
To try to catch the way your guise flares

On this hot day, late in what we’d term
Spring, which we doubt means a thing to you,

This trap, this threat to your best traits, drought
At the same time as the year’s long days.

What you’ll make of this light will come down
To how long the drought lasts and how deep

Your tap root goes. We share that with you,
At least—we can’t say, we have no way

To know how deep our own source words go.
We want to be what you are. We want,

In our lines, to catch and to call out
What you do. How calm and how not still.