Bushel of Berry, Bushel of Sky: A Spell for the Tree Lover (Hawthorn)

It’s not too late.
Not too late to speak the words
that tilt the world
half an inch toward enchantment.

Not too late to remember
how your hands once knew
the language of blossoms,
how to weave the small white stars
into your hair.

Lie down now,
beside the hawthorn.

You have time—more than you think—
to be still
beside the thorned heart of things.

Dilly dally, says the hedge.
Linger with time, and your fingers may forget their purpose.
Turn stones for no reason.
Comb the grass, for a spell,
with fingers of a lover with nowhere else to be.

It is not too late
to forget the old vows.
It is not too late
to take a dream lover.

Why not a tree? The little hawthorn laughs.
Tiny bells ringing somewhere over the hills.

There is time yet
before the boughs gnarl,
before the thorns swell
 to terry in dew adornments.

Hide yourself under the shrub
while the birds count to twenty—

Call out all ye, all ye, come free!
Ready or not, 

 a thousand small ears listen in the green hush.

You may forget to declare yourself.
You may flush and loiter,
forgetting also
the bushel of berry, bushel of sky.

Go on—
tangle ribbon,
bind your secrets and your hair with twigs.

By and by,
catch your breath between the branches.

As the hour ripens,
crown her benevolent ruler.
Call her beloved.

The day is not yet gone.

You may still
let a slower dream take root.

Come closer.

And listen:

The air is stitched with wishes
and sharp-leafed rapture.

Bide a while yet,
and let the tree
love you back.