SWAY

What is it about words that make the world

fit easier? Air and time.

Since last we spoke, I’ve been better.

I slept again once the Pink Moon

moved off a little, put her pants back on, let me be.

Are you sleeping again?

I’m home in the bluegrass now, one of the places

my body feels at ease. I can’t stop

putting plants in the ground. There’s a hunger in me,

a need to watch something grow. A neighbor brought me

five new hostas to plant along the fence line that’s shaded all afternoon.

As I dug into the ground making room around the maple,

I found a bunch of wild strawberries, flowering.

I let them be: the heart berry. Red,

like our rage. The red of your desert. Your heart too.

My neighbor and her wife bring me plants and chive pesto

and we let our dogs run under the fence

to multiply their space. Small beasts running in more air.

I have been alone a long time this year.

She says when she looks at me, she is reminded of time.

I didn’t know what she meant, so she repeated,

When I see you, I become very aware of time.

A grackle, now two, are joining us here, in the vines; they’re

too heavy for the young spring branches.

My man is coming home today, driving ten hours

to be home, and by god, I will throw my body toward him,

the way you wrote: How is it that we know what we are?

Maybe this letter is to say, if it is red where you are,

know there is also green, the serrated leaves of dandelion, lemon balm,

purple sage, peppermint, a small plum tree by the shed.

I don’t know how to make medicine, or cure what’s scarring

this planet, but I know that last night, the train came roaring

right as I needed it. I was alone and I was time, but

the train made a noise so I would listen. I was standing so

close, a body on a bridge, so that I could feel how

the air shifted to make room for the train. How it’s easier

if we become more like a body of air, branches, and make room

for this red charging thing that barrels through us,

how afterward our leaves shake and stand straighter.