𝘣𝘺 𝘋𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘥 𝘋𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘴
A retrograde spring. The faster turn of
horizon’s hills nearer than they should be.
We name our own poles, of course, but a place
exerts a natural pull just as our
evolution understands — faltering —
that we are not home, no longer rest on
the cornerstone of distant ancestors.
I am in a valley where the daylight
holds a shade hardly outside the spectrum
of my eyes. The shadows change place at quick
angles and a year switches from snow to
sudden flowering before a season
has settled into enjoyment. I find
an extraordinary circumstance
is easier to digest than this slight
off-color. Local phenomena that
lack an analogue – these I can stare at
in comfort. But for a shade of sky which
almost mocks. I will stare but... at nothing.
The vertigo of obscure stars above;
they shine in nights and winters shorter than
a body remembers, that not even
a cycle of generations negates.
Not at home in a new home. So how long
‘til roots take hold in soils of strange enzymes?
Longer than this, as the sun overhead
moves faster than we feel it should and weight
of a new lessened gravity does not
hug as tight; it leaves a yearning, a wish
in the base of the brain, an odd stress in
depths that are farther than reach.
I turn back
up a hillside of remote scrub, to find
intent in the work lying before me.