Great Blue Heron at Burnett Bridge

For Sam Skold

Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.
—Revelation 3:20

You took me in the sun
to your home-

town, to the tidal marsh, to the bridge
where you jump

into me.
___

a great blue heron stills its gait to wait in the shallows poised watching for shadows to wend the cold currents under the surface
___

Once there was a door
that jammed
at the thought of itself.

You open the door
to reveal a gate you open
to another door—

The morning sun
slants into me,
a sharp fire in crisp air.

By night,
I was ashamed to cry
into your chest.

___

At sea, conifers climb roughhewn rock of islands. Upstream, plovers
pipe the ploughheads of beaks into mud for invertebrates. Can you
see trees walk? Can you see beneath the mud, into the fishhold word
plover? Can you see a door’s fleshhood swell against its jam?
___

the gulf between stasis and patience gapes awaiting water’s return or the calendar days I count until it is humid between us until you jump into the water until I again can warm my ear on your neck
___

The in-tide will return, you will splash, the drops will kiss the earth with diamonds.
At home I open all the doors to let in sea-liquor, wind, songs of the birds whose names I have yet to learn.
___

& the firs cling to their island rocks.
& the herons release their jeweled shames.
& the world invites us to stillness.

Source: Poetry (September 2025)