click

When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe. One fancies a heart like our own must be beating in every crystal and cell, and we feel like stopping to speak to the plants and animals as friendly fellow mountaineers.” ~ Muir


Are they full of rain—

Those gray pockets in the sky?

separate entities

breaking for mountains

dodging from light.

sweet dew

invisible mists

a dance of smells

there’s no other time of day:

birds begin to fly,

shadows dim.

life was not all asleep

recesses of moments

when sky brightens.

day for some,

night, others.

 

transition

 

the worm will dash

home, but not before

the ants find him.

a twist of decadence

woven around fate—

innate

food for the day

already won,

at a cost of one.

a simple surface

no less complex

under [her] shifting beams.

All is subject

to one brutal force.

at six am, the leaves

look their brightest

ready

poised, posed, wavering.

they thirst for a matter

not liquid.

they inhale with every

fiber.

the only music they hear

is a breeze, but that’s

all they need to dance.

Absorbing, all

telling

rising

stagnant.

follow the wind

push against air

and give back

to everything

every      thing

 

they look up

to pink bellies

of clouds

hungry, waiting,

feeding time.

heaping drink

so patient

as the rain falls

into the woven woods

of grass stalks

tapping at the roots

no knocking of rocks

no pleas to come inside

a symbiosis

of desire.

palatable.

necessary.

proud.

 

O, trees can be selfish

in all that they want.

life need not ask

permission

to fight.

the battle makes a turn

from midnight.

she rises

with a brilliant scream;

the brilliant interlocutor jumps,

“turn your attention to me.”

yet they need no command

language doesn’t demand words

growth doesn’t deem care.

 

Good morning,

and good night.

 

Time isn’t as fickle as all that.

he’s comfortable, and scary

resistant and precise.

the oak knows him as well

as his wife.

Light: abdominal acid

fire orange, purple entrails

slip, and fall.

the trunks of trees don’t meet

their meal with their mouths

they sip softly

they wait their turn.

A beg is silent;

a taste, inevitable.

once the risen is risen

explosion gone

inebriation.

hours of liquor

pour from the skies:

the drink of the gods—

a negotiable fruit

most essential

taken for granted

save for the leaves.

A need for what is base.

a reverence

a prayer

a moment for thought

nature of the heavens. 

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