“For D.” by Christian Wiman:
Groans going all the way up a young tree
half–cracked and caught in the crook of another
pause. All around the hill-ringed, heavened pond
leaves shush themselves like an audience.
A cellular stillness, as of some huge attention
bearing down. May I hold your hand?
A clutch of mayflies banqueting on oblivion
writhes above the water like visible light.