Trees blush more deeply than we can — with leaves the color of the inside
of leaves — if foliage were as red-blooded as five o’clock
shadow — and if foliage, too, were to hold
the inclination to bear the body inside out, to wear skin and bones
— down to skin and bones, to be simply muscle
fiber and spindle and nerve — to be closer
to some other nature. This is the assumption of risk we take. As humans.
As humanity, as dinner table silence paints our vision
more salient — Look down. Look forward. Look
here, where the water glass reflects the glass countertop which in turn
reflects the window — and all that is inside the glass
— the thick brush of ivy, wood and bannister,
the dog running laps around the lake tonight — tonight I am learning to love
my mother and my father the way I imagine I will love
my daughter the way I imagine they love
me. Lineage — I want this to be my choice. I want precedents to take precedence
— to grab itself by its own shoulder blades this time, by embrace.
Look up — of course, there is the moon.
Without this moon — and what fills the inside of its curve — its thoughts of the ocean,
its kinship with the candle that meets flame, and of course,
the horses — in leisure — the wild horses
that sunbathe on the beach — without this moon, I cannot speak of violence.
I cannot understand the painstaking lengths the world goes to
— washing oak trees of their leaves in autumn
— to thread needle — needle and thread — and aren’t we all just waiting for spring
— and yet, to know our seams are held together by such gentle lines
is to know the ease with which they let go
— and yet, this thread — this existence at all. How I dream of awakening
in the middle of the night to an orange lit figure — she is always
sewing linens — the wire of the bicycle tire,
the pencil stroke, grace note. I can barely bear myself — I think of spring —
how, many days later, I dream of the same material — cup the water
to open palms and bring the water to face.