The Air Is Awash Poem by Julian Mann

The air is awash
With green tongues
Rising above a chainsaw,
As meditation shifts
Upon a pattern of leaves

The air in shades
Translucent song
Shallow distances, where the secret
(I)kept for myself
An earthwork's provenance

Translucent as the first flower
While a spring land is drawing me through
Chainsaw, and dry chirp
Of February
dead streams, wet from memory:

Meditation primes the lane
In cross-section, limited view
Or in walking up through caught light
For the evening task

muted activity, abiding art
of wind-light