She Journeys

tonight might be nothing but the moon and me

Hot off the press:

Umbilical (N.F.)

I live this life like I am without breath,
an astronaut, so far out of my depth.
The worst, this waiting for her collapse
beneath my footing; she’ll leave perhaps
in search of freshly sown scenery
(or more clever metaphors): a sea
of found space, unfettered, unfurled
as time, as memory. And the world
I know will follow wherever she’ll rear
wild with newness, forsaking me, a mere
afterthought sketched on the fading backdrop
of all her greens and autumns. Still, to stop
this worship is to cease myself. You see,
she is infinity, earth: mother to me.

posted by TriptychChick @ 11:58 PM