for E

A spider has eight legs
but no map.
Still, it walks the wind
like a line of thought
unraveling toward form.
The seeds fall
by gravity’s grace-note,
the lean of a slope,
the hush before June.

Some things root
where they shouldn’t
and still bloom
like they mean it.

You said, “there’s a wild order,”
and I believe you,
because the night sounds like it’s listening,
because a child sleeps
through thunder,
because the moon knows
when not to be full.