A Cargo of Green Hearts
my head has stopped.
the rustling panic of fallen leaves
falls away as I place my ear to a hole
in the thick earth and listen
to the proclamations of stones.
things are moving down there
so subliminally it is if they never began.
to say "I love you" in stone-speak takes
centuries. dying old people only
get to hear the first letter O
which reminds them how
we all loop back to the source
and how we, each of us, is born
to complete our own perfect zero.
but what about the second O?
the salmon knows, because he
is of the water, below reflection
and dies better than us
breathing raw air on the shore
of his liquid world. me, I am
still trying to sort out a secret birds
have told me, the way one can
learn how to stitch something to the
sky so that it lingers like a star.
a feather is required. I'm far behind
but catching up. I can thread a needle
and at least
there is utility in that,
when I sewed my eyes shut
and grew this emptiness
everything started whispering.
trees made room for me
to stand upright beside them
and take my small place
in the daily lifting of the sky.
the bellies of clouds slid longing
off my hands. there is no way to
describe that texture.
if you will ask me how I know
all these unscientific things are true
stay until it snows
and the dead among the leaves
speak their nervous rustlings
and I will teach you the how
and the how not of it
under a cool white blanket.
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