Who Knew (7)
Measuring each step,
the earth tells its own story.
Standing in a field, encircled by hills,
that rich smell of summer,
layers of russets and greens before me. And yet
I am turned to stone,
desperate to remember the fragments I am made of.
I am often surprised that I am still in this world;
from clicking knee to nicotine fix.
But you, with your disorderly body cells,
imperfections, aggressively designed,
like a stranger holding your future in their hand.
Who gave permission for its release?
The distant trees were a block of colour.
Is that where you went? To the woods,
to cool off, to proffer comfort from waiting animals,
feeling the membranes in your body tremble,
the quickening pulse of blood.
Borders are a product of human condition,
ignored by nature and the language of the river.
Fish dart over polished stone,
birds wheel away and squawk,
mingled with my own absurd cries.