to my
soles. They ache
with the weight
of water
pooling, as bulbs in the winter
ground do,
between cells, within
the cytoplasmic
mess
of liquid
I can’t escape—
the soft touch and
undulation
of the creek
arrests me. I can’t escape
this feeling
of wholeness. I am still.
The world shakes.
I disrupt
the singular
flow of water,
casting the sharp reflections
dull, I worry
that I am graying
the rest of the world
with each gasping stitch
of my lips.
Yesterday
my breath blew acrid
the way moonlight
with its white light
seems to ferment
all life:
bulbs bittering
the pink tongue of the root:
their flesh unfolds
to reveal
the embryonic petals
pealing against
the moon’s threat
of spoilage.
Here is the thing:
loss is
as simple
as Spring:
The world
pushes back
against any
and all
force:
We swell as
the waves do.
Loss is nothing
but
those green eggs
in the nest
the bird smuggled
under the rafters
of the broken deck,
nothing but
a hardened
carbon
home
for flecks
of life.