Uncontained

Home is where green is welcome, womb
to fronds, table-gathering, stolen emblems
from the forest, staying a day or two;
a dream taken from backwood
that wakens in the doorway.

Mostly that dream stays with the woods
for home is where things come to wake,

as a tree is in a lintel, brooched
with a mezuzah touched endlessly, Gabriel
passing through, when green's most miracle:
first tongues from sleek bones in the woods, blown
with silent wind and catching sun
amid the webbed old, pillars of boles.

Through the window, the Saturday lawn
is swollen in the light of late noon
with a wholeness like bread; then drawn
across the tips of the blades
the light shares space with long shades,
allowing all green to green. God said:

"They cannot live on so much miracle
uncontained, so let there be a Home."