i want you
under open sky
the sun in your
forehead & spread hair
the grass around your thighs
making no mistakes
of roundness
i want you in
water & the air
i want you
as long as there is
ocean
on the same earth
i want the
feel of under you
a planet
Miniature mountaineer
A stalk of grass
A new adventure
Futuristic forager
Supplying for
The greater body
Terrific tunnerler
Expanding and growing
The home
Solid solder
Welcomed home
In pride
Quintessential queen
Living in the glory
Of the nest
It is late evening.
a girl sits alone, unwatched,
the first time in months she is truly secluded.
even the leaves around her stay still, afraid to trigger..
she sits on the coldest patch of grass there is,
talks out the headphones blasting music she doesnt understand,
and brings her legs toward her chest, a feeble attempt to stop what is sure to come.
she starts rocking back and forth slowly...
If you saw her back,
you'd think nothing of the figure, maybe she is meditating?
None one sees the silent face she has made, curved into a scream that will never come, her full lips parted fully in horror,
not even being able to make a noise, unable to let it go,
I see you foraging through
weeds in a field; it’s spring,
air streaked green. I’m with
you in the field: I’m mud, or
grass, I’m beneath your nails,
held fast. Bark flakes off me.
You pass on, satisfied. Branches
sway, flecked by tongues—
look at my garden’s sprawl;
do you see me here, or in the air?
I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.
The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.
I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.
But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,--alone,
‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’
But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a bewildered butterfly,
Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.
And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.
Here further up the mountain slope
Than there was ever any hope,
My father built, enclosed a spring,
Strung chains of wall round everything,
Subdued the growth of earth to grass,
And brought our various lives to pass.
A dozen girls and boys we were.
The mountain seemed to like the stir,
And made of us a little while--
With always something in her smile.
Today she wouldn’t know our name.
(No girl’s, of course, has stayed the same.)
The mountain pushed us off her knees.
And now her lap is full of trees.
Before the eggs hatch
two Geese walking nearby,
eating dead grass.
Are the fallen stars
Returning up the sky?-
The dews on the grass.
One had a lovely face,
And two or three had charm,
But charm and face were in vain
Because the mountain grass
Cannot but keep the form
Where the mountain hare has lain.
This is the spot where I will lie
When life has had enough of me,
These are the grasses that will blow
Above me like a living sea.
These gay old lilies will not shrink
To draw their life from death of mine,
And I will give my body's fire
To make blue flowers on this vine.
"O Soul," I said, "have you no tears?
Was not the body dear to you?"
I heard my soul say carelessly,
"The myrtle flowers will grow more blue."
Thin and dark green symbol
Of an earth forever raising
Myriads of chained wings,
Breezes have a form, to you,
And sounds break into vivid shape.
The proud finality of tiny sight
Cannot lure your pliant blindness.
Thin and dark green blade,
Be not awed by trees and men
Whose sound is all that gives them life.
You reach the sky because your face
Is not turned toward it.
Soon amid the inviolable places
Will green, rustling steeples chime again
With the sweet, glassy bell-notes of the wren.
Soon the plain shall lie beneath blue spaces —
Bold and broad and ruddy in the sun,
Long and lean to the moon when day is done.
Soon will come the strange, heart-lifting season
When through the dark, still dawns, where nothing was,
Steals the mysterious whisper of growing grass;
And a joy like pain possesses the soul, without reason,
Between the budding of day and the lapse of night,
With the clear, cold scent of wet starlight.