I have supple and unseen branches
unfurling from soles and palms,
tethering me to Where and Now.
They tangle with taproots
and merge with mycelium
and slow my motion upon this Earth.
In such stillness, I am noticed by bees,
made a vessel for honey and latticed in wax.
I am a languid landscape,
a lounging pastoral,
a safe haven for lichens and violets.
Rabbits do not fear me,
and so I sing them Springtime stories
in the language of star-halved apples
and copper going green.
I ask for little and desire much, and so
the gentle brush of a knuckle at my nape
as steady hands fasten a jade torque
about the strong stem of my neck
would send spirals of viridescent pleasure
curling through me like the eager reaches
of sweet new peas and morning glories.
Come to me the middle of Friday,
drop a kiss at my throat.
I’ll pour milk into your tea
and we will doze in the clover,
chocolate melting on our tongues,
stroked senseless by the golden sun,
laughing and sighing our satisfaction
at Today.
The Stars, the Salt, and Me 