Forsythia comes to Massachusetts
like it always does:
in between the sugar maple
and the neighbor’s parked truck.
Never could I stomach
Children of invention:
you’ll be jittery from the adrenaline.
A diver at the platform, arms stretched––
ready to plunge
into my outstretched lungs. This breath
is made of roots
sighing and singing and sleeping.
A footprint from the treetops.
In first grade I learned
the water in my kitchen tap
was what the dinosaurs drank.
I am most comfortable
when in constant motion––
on the highway
over water, stomping grounds.
Tendrils. Locks. The harbor opens
to a tiled tunnel
that uncovers wounds as they wash through:
the elbow, the knee, the transition places.
Bends I love.