In My Body of Skin

When I was a nightingale I sang
When I was a serpent I swallowed
My voice   spume blown from a wave
a sound too thin for earthworms

With memories older than Prometheus
I remember the time when time was birthed
the sky appeared
sudden light   wind and water
where blind valves closed
on a single grain of sand

In my body of skin   of moss   of clover
I touch fingers to fingers
                  lips to lips
                  the exposed tip of the heart

Seed work   sun work   earthwork
If pansies are for thoughts
I pick them early in the morning so they last

Lake-summer days I climb the hill
drink the sky and pose like Millet’s peasant
listening to an invisible lark

With a pocketful of seeds I sit
peeling an orange under a static sun
attentive to the sound of pine cones clicking open

The child sleeps in my shadow
and walks beside me
following from birth
moving as I move
We cling together like small animals

The well is dry   the cup empty
and gravity is a long way down

Ruth Daigon | Mudlark No. 25
Contents | Unlit Places