There are poems that evolve in ways you cannot predict. This poem, is actually a draft of the first poem I wrote this year and seems so little like the poem I started with. What’s amazing to me is that this poem about gestures lacks much of the personal loving detail of the original. I am compelled to go back and recast it in new ways to find other avenues.
We address Earth
like cooing doves in elm bows,
mother cats licking blind kitten eyes,
and pink petunia petals opening to slow June rain.
Our fingers braid
new roots in opened soil,
a thumb’s pad to a knuckle.
Each touch becomes a poem,
each mutter a verse in dicta spoken.
each praxis a performance for millennia.