Trail to meadow. Lay down
your compass. Braid
the perimeter, follow yellow:
clover, skin, starline, grass.
Lay down. In this cup
of earth’s palm. The distance
between life and life
is the length of the trail you just walked.
This doesn’t mean death
doesn’t lurk in the sun’s composure.
Prairie dog holes.
Decomposing tufts of grass.
This doesn’t mean there isn’t
truth in bees that thread through
skinny trees, boulders littering
the edges, volcanic debris.
The meadow lives because
it dies and dies.
Lie down, listen, braid whippoorwill
flight paths, clover, echoes of sun.
Wander, follow, forget the compass
and hardest of all:
don’t try to find your way back
Notice distance you require.
Notice because you die and die
This doesn’t mean you can’t
gather malapais, transcribe stone
walls to ward off cold.
Take down the odd-fitting
stone. One misplaced could cause
the entire structure to crumble.
This doesn’t mean
Pace the edges. Compose a path.
Press restless grass
and mud into the gaps.
You never knew love was so physical.