The shoreline turf looks softer
than any bed I’ve ever known;
but I am not deceived.
Those tempting clusters
are surely home to ants and beetles.
The byrum moss, like green dew drops on string,
provides a hunting ground for spiders,
and the floor, I see,
is rough with debris
of time gone by.
I lie down, anyway.
Would you believe me if I said—
though the monkeyflower itched
and a jagged rock dug into my ribs—
I was comforted.
I ran my fingers through grass and reeds
like the hair of a lover,
and pulled over me a blanket of twigs.
Curling my legs to my chest, I became
a seed and whispered
the roots of a prayer into the earth:
though the monkeyflower itched
and a jagged rock dug into my ribs—
I was comforted.
I ran my fingers through grass and reeds
like the hair of a lover,
and pulled over me a blanket of twigs.
Curling my legs to my chest, I became
a seed and whispered
the roots of a prayer into the earth:
please, mother,
I want to grow too.
