in bursts of static song over a short-wave radio
in the coldest winter tucked into your blue wool socks
through the red, muddy water in the gutter after rain
in the cornerstone of the ground floor of your dormitory
woven into the wonderful purple of a southern twilight
and the strutting peacock of a clear midafternoon sky
up a steep ladder, down a steep hill, wherever you draw
breath: the oxygen, the carbon, the nitrogen, the pine.