between bare-branched limbs of wintered trees
a bird's call echoes an old screen door

moss like tiny stars, huddle close together
bright-green, 
not yet swallowed up by the newness of spring

i want to lie down on the forest floor 
between layers of long-fallen leaves and decompose,
letting the earth and its creatures consume me

but, like the bird, 
i choose to be heard

and like the moss,
i choose to take hold