There is the smell
Of moss and green. A color
Like a thief. Stealing land, smothering
Hillsides and the trees. This
Essence, the Qi, of the
Leaf and blade, settles here
(On my breast) and cracks me open
To lift my heart.

A road
Is just a road; before I came it was
But wilderness. There was a time things must’ve
Kissed without lips. What steps
I take,
Time does not care;
All rolls with the valleys and the mountains.

Out my window,
Is a pine. If it were to collapse it would
Crush me and my house;
The way I crush
The stem of a clover,
And bring it to my eye to gulp and
I can’t

Begin, to understand,
How violent nature is, how unbecoming
Of human kindness.
Try as I may to cradle a fly,
It fights me,
Horror bound and brief.

But I do not know how not to love the green.
I do not know how
To be selfless
When I must eat and drink.
I do not know how to give, nor
How to take. The moth is
Ceaseless in her need; no guilt
Burdens her chitin wing.
She is
Free, and toils upon nothing.

The scent,
Of movings: what fleshless thing
Could be so true?
Change,
Is all I have and know.

The earth is older than I. And night
Is cold. And fire
At his core:

The burning blue.
I am going to someday die.

First published on Poet’s Corner April 21, 2016