Telling: Streams & Logs



For days now I have lived inside, believing
what the dim told me,
stories of ease and motion.

Now stepping out onto the rain soaked porch, 
the wood rough and surly underfoot,
I open my arms into air with no breath in it,
air with no yield.

The trees all wear the sun’s colors.
Nothing moves.

In the garden a forgotten herb
has gone to flower.

Suddenly I remember who I am.

How still it is,
how blooming and impossible.