Behind the House

But it is not always quiet here.
Things go on while we sleep the sleep of soldiers.

Ancient branches crack and splinter into dust.
Large wings snap open in spring
like carpets splayed out over the railing.

Granite splits apart at the seams
and great animals cleave roads through woods.

Daily, in the density, there is life
on the edge of the knife that cuts the world
into hemispheres of sense and death.

Trees are born and die, bones turn to humus,
glaciers to meadowland. It is time

to turn yourself loose, like new leaves,
like big lakes on which swim enormous birds
at a distance deeper in breadth than the water's depth.

Their shadows pull you to the shore.
Their size fills your lungs with sky. It is time

to heave aside the boulders and the dams,
to come back out like a bear after the thaw, to be
ready for the forest, for the forage, for the full

and waning moons. You will get soaked in wet grass,
feel the insects pierce your skin. You will learn

to balance between gravity and light. There will be
hot and sticky nights, sharp songs at dawn,
long and bright ineffable days.

This is your chance to crash your way
through underbrush unlocking like so many doors.


Unlocking, by Alice B. Fogel