O circulating cell,
wrapped with dust,
all rests upon a root,
life rushing beneath.
I press two feet to you,
soles in osmosis,
and my mouth shapes a seed.
If I rest against the trunk,
a gradual spine,
the bend of shade reaches
down, your hands over my eyes.
Then I see our horizon, swaddled
in skin and bloodstreams,
turning into turning.
*
[This is an old one that has, for some reason, stuck with me for some years. How do you weigh your own attachment to a poem against the more objective sense of its "worth" or "quality"? Writing for myself for so many years gets complicated when I imagine a public audience, even if only an unread blog.]
I think the work that sticks with you, that you can bring back into the light and not wince at, is probably good work.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful language here-soles in osmosis, my mouth shapes a seed, and that moving image of your hands over my eyes--
I like how the poem begins with "I" and "you" and ends with "our". All turning into turning on this circulating cell. I love this old world.