by Margaret Gibson
One day I will not wake in my body as you know it
or go from the bed to the open
door to breathe in the fresh glory of the morning.
Although you will not see me, by afternoon I will be
wind, unfenced in the expanse
between towering clouds of oyster and plum air.
I will be in the oak, in the ivy, in the spillway
and banks thick with iris,
yellow-eyed and blue, and in the tannic and bittersweet
silk of the pond over which clouds pause and reflect
before shattering the surface.
I will be in the rain, in the stone, in the root, in the fruits
of the garden. You will take me into your mouth
(as so often you have)
and we will be one body of solitudes and barrens and wilds.
We will be mountain and cirrus, salamander, owl in the dark
husk of winter, a crescendo
of cicadas in summer. We will fly in a flash of green light
over fields taking shape in the early morning mists. Here,
always here. So close, there is
nothing more I can tell you than what we already know.
Last updated November 03, 2022