I walked out on the tundra, to lay down in the moss. Dew of sun all in my hair; I contemplate—the loss? Or is it? Here I am, with brine, and soot, and spruce, and pine. For all that is repleting: boletes and their seedlings. My prayers go out— and I receive. Earth feeds me. We talk about depreciation. What about appreciation? Blood of flower moon, soon, fireweed will bloom. Winter curled around me bare, and I turned within. Grief that claimed me, and reframed me, equal with chagrin. I asked my heart, where did you go? —what should I know? less than before. And to my core, I felt the heat, refused to die like coals beneath sheets of ice that lay in wait, for our reckoning. Yet don't hesitate; blink and miss. My heart stayed with me, yet partly stayed out on the tundra. And I within the city: a muted song of torpor. Above wood frogs, on downy fluff, now solidified into honey combs of ice, thusly crystalized. These shifts of grief, to contemplate light and tide that re-create. Beneath hoofprints of caribou, who understand— beneath the snow, upon the land the whitest moss, and cranberries, remain: for those who know, but only those who need.
From: Vol.09 N.01 – A Poetics of Rights
Dew of Sun All in My Hair
by Fern Golden