A Poem for Today

by Leah Herzing

-For Ryan + Lindsay-

The world is within me

in my tired body. The world 

and the bubbling of too much 

life, too many cells spreading,

​hard at work to take over.

I left for the pines 

where the light filters 

as pure as the whitest hair.

The light is like soft sheets

around the tall trunks with 

flaking bark that is colored

clay and pinkish-gray like a bruise.

The snow, a wet cover of skin 

over the bones of ​branches, rocks, 

and pebbles​. That thirst after the melt?

It is the muscle of meaty mushrooms,

the red-caps and the cauliflowers.

Touch them. 

I am there.  

I left for the lakes where each pool 

is a wide mouth of water.

The well-weathered Superior

with its freckled ice cracking and melting;

another so crystalline you can see

and touch the largemouth, the bluegill,

the northern pike. 

And one so opaque and saline

Where there are hundreds of birds–

the waterfowl, the wading ones 

busy at the salty edges, 

And those  infinitely diligent passerines.

All of the shorelines are an easy breath–

In and out.

In and out.

I am there.

I left for the prairie with the sun as 

eyelids of warmth​ covering the soil,

above the layered depths of dirt just letting go 

of the chill. The bluestem waves hands

as the white tailed lingers, and the rabbits

taste the sugary stalks of the tall grass. 

A year after the burn, there is a path

where the wildflowers part

and the dirt kicks up

as the children run. 

I am there. 

I left for the garden

where magnolias stretch out, offering

bowls of reddish-purple crowns.

In the hot mouth of sunlight, 

the wild bergamot grows, bees nudging its 

fingertips of lavender​.

Prickled, leafy vines hold young

heirloom tomatoes, fleshy full of juice.

Savor them with their colors of 

maroon, tangerine, pale green 

and thick yellow– painter’s colors.

Save the seeds for planting.

I am there.

All of the cycles are within me,

in the spirit of ash and sand​,

more life, more webs reaching.

My connection effervescent,

whispers always, like easy wind,

like the low-pitched call 

of the owls, 

sacred syllables echoing.

I am here.