Losing anchor

The ash tree
holds the sky,
biting bits of
blue between its boughs.  But beyond
the sky is full again
and stoops towards the tree
to hold its branches.

And what of me?
Why do I sometimes slip
from the sloping wheel of blue,
float from the fast ground
that has thrown lose my anchor
so I drift at the mercy
of its currents?  What bits of blue
do I hold, what ground
grinds soil into my soul,
what pigment steeps
in the breath of my escape?

If I bed my body down
into the vigour of the
leaves, if I hang my thread
on the growing seeds, on the careless, deadened
weeds that still have beauty in their brown,
if I suck in the fallen sky that fills
the space in front of me
will I find roots, will I latch and catch the turning
earth to my side until I feel the tread
of the horizon?

Can I spin the
wool-filled pool of loss into a
spool that stretches through the paused
present into a landscape
that waves with welcome?