“Nature is taking a breath, and the rest of us are holding ours.”
Marina Koren, The Atlantic
We usually chase time,
scrambling down
into an hour-glass ravine
while loose rocks
slide beneath hurry-up feet.
Now—each frame mitigated,
we stop skimming the surface
of others on our way
to countless wherevers
and instead hug our own lives.
Remember how real they are,
flesh and blood from dust
returning to dust.
We who once watched the world
through a calendar-grid of windows,
life uncoils in slow motion,
time-lapsed in reverse now.
dogwood flags unfurl
two cardinals meet talk
flirt measure each other up
marry their lives
in the too-berried holly
too-close to the house
bush beans in a new bed
worry their heads up
through unfamiliar soil
while bumblebees samba
mid-air until sunset when
a pregnant pink moon rests
in the crook of the lean-to maple
out back where a squirrel sits
to nibble last year’s pecan
What do I owe this eccentric road
my feet now travel without moving?
A dance.
Salt 