for Bryna_  Each place is the end of the world.  This is the sound of what remains  out across long dusk,  your small fist of sleep in my hand  where a plain brown bird sounds  from the deepwood.  The tiny irreparable damage of living  is what I have given you.  By this sound be initiated  and see deeply.  Do not forget the myth of your body  for I once forgot mine  and the monk without faith  slept better than I.  Perhaps you will find what ruled me  after I am dead, for its fires  are still dark to me.  It is not skill, knowledge, intellect,  good luck or bad, but choosing  to feel the strange notes of our wildness,  for there is not nothingness  despite the easy magic of despair.  Read these woodsigns  hidden beyond the first steps  and regain our love in this sound.  Roads will never be closed to you.  We stand in a meadow of fireflies and timothy.  The sky lies pale with some stars.  BECOMING THE MOUNTAIN  _ - for Conor_  They stood on a road in December.  Wind made snow ghosts among the trees.  The child asked, "Where does the wind come from?"  It comes from the mouth of nowhere,  between day and dark  so the trees can talk together.  "But it's winter now  and the trees are sleeping."  Yes, so listen carefully  to their dreams.  "And suppose I am the wind?"  Then you are also the dreams.  SWEET TIMOTHY  _ - for Jane on our 00th_  I  (0000-00)  White are the beds of April,  waylaid beautiful fire  burning out of luck and life,  being earlier than I have ever thought,  where, once leaves breathe  in the walk of morning,  light flakes green.  Children are the first awake,  before milk or bird,  waiting for sound  and the secret bowers of summer.  Wind through sunlight.  Cobwebs on the rhubarb leaves.  What flows between me but  even spring,  even water  drying inward from the edges.  Sweet timothy of days and my dear  tell me many times  how hot are the beds of summer.  Say at last a bush is burning,  lovely as life  when the thought is on us,  hatched in loitering acts  and rising all the time,  though there is time enough  to die in life as lovely as aching;  or being found out in my prayer,  leave me half on fire,  throwing off attitudes like flame,  for these grave eyes divine what  but that there is not in being one  I may love after you.  II  (0000)  These uncertain hands  carry both love and poison,  have been our undoing many times,  but refuse to disappear.  Take them again -   recall their stubborn particulars  as we return to the bluegreen meadow  wholly dependent on our inabilities.  Goldfinch, redwing, the hawk-stunned air,  the endlessly uttering grasses  say still there breathes no other  across a thousand miles of evening.  ## 