Poem #189
Space #4
As I move through these woods
space feels more and more rigid,
all other things are stubborn
going about the tasks that make them—
mouse is combing through grass for bugs,
the oak tree is drinking sunlight and breathing
deep breaths that float away as clouds.
Owl was watching from the jagged leaves,
but closed her eyes to get some rest.
There are fungi turning death
into toadstools for the elk and beetles
rest in the mushroom grove and brawl in the dirt.
The only thing that feels flexible is time,
whiskers twitching in slow motion,
each ancestor tree forming a silhouette
around the branches I see now
shaking as owl floats away.