Between earth and air
lies the language of sun,
speaking,
responding in clouds.
If I must travel,
let me feel every footstep.
Let me know myself
as part of that through which I pass.
We are each the fine end point
of not just one but many lines,
not just two, but four, eight,
sixteen, thirty-two ply and more…
I wake to find
a silver bar of moon
has slipped between the curtains
to scan me…
Someone knows these answers.
Someone loves this beach
and is known by it
for the press of their foot,
for the skin the sand sloughs off
and mixes with its own.
I go to the earth,
to ground,
to lay down,
place down
all the things I cannot carry.
This is not a nothing day.
The pines are whistling,
cypress trunks squeaking in the wind,
cicadas have started to sing…
No feather will fall in quite the same way;
not in this spot, from that height,
to be caught between two heads of rye…
We are all ephemera,
all essential,
on this land and of it…