I love not knowing what the poem will be

I love not knowing
what the poem will be
Will it perhaps
tell of that tree?
How I can follow its trunk from the shade
up and up
until the golden light?
Will it be a song of hope for you
in your hour of need?
Or how about how
in this wood
the evensong is leavened
by the droning of motors
A lament
for so much true wilderness lost
Or perhaps I'll speak of small things
that squirrel hunched over a nut
her tail coiled like a question mark
in motion: a wave
her speed unchanged as she flows
from horizontal to the upward trunk
her body impervious
to those famous Higgs bosons
Or will it be about
the quiet roar of the sea
beckoning me over the boardwalk's brow
how its salt is mirrored
by the salt in my blood
How we are kin?
Or perhaps
when I sit on the sand
I'll think of my wife and my son
and of that oceanic love
which expands
ever further
as the farthest stars stretch the universe
ever larger
ever grander
evermore.