My Morning Poem!

Immortal

After weeks of fog, the sky is blue,

startlingly so

and the trees shrink in the open air.

There are so many held in a bouquet

that I notice the shape of the hill and how

it waits like a bow for arrows to place

and strike some new knowing,

pierce the rocks tumbling now

in me.

My goal is to know how to move

among landscape, to sing a song

of memory, finding firmness

even as I bounce and pounce,

examining bones left open

after skin and flesh have turned

into comfort, zest, and flight,

for the other, not an other,

a slice of the maze. 

I peel myself like an orange,

sit with seeds

and drink the juice,

make then and now one scroll

buried and unburied

over and over again

as time waves with tides,

waits like grain

to leaven in bread.