Where Does My Attention Lie?

The garden in the woods
That grows beyond itself, grows out
Of the damp soil that sprouts

So many other, finer things,
Such as the shade-giving,

Snow-shedding, rain-dissuading spruce.

They mat the ground with spines
That, when green, made air from the sun

But now only lie there

In heaps of preventive measures
Fanned out to guard against
This very possibility.

Something will find a way
To send a runner to the light,
Calling it, called by it

To respond to the difficult
Question of what is not
Itself, blossoming, everything.