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.
In my body of skin, of moss, of clover
I touch fingers with fingers
lips with lips
the exposed tip of the heart.
With memories older than Prometheus
I remember the time when time was birthed
the sky appeared
the wind and water
where blind valves closed
on a single grain of sand.
Seed work sun work earth work.
If pansies are for thoughts
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 and
moving as I move.
We cling together like small animals, trembling
and the well is dry the cup empty
and gravity's a long way down.