My tough blue hands are veined with a thousand rivers
navigated or drowned in.
But I have roots to care about, moss to take me in;
earth-maid, dirt-maid, pages of trees to grow within.
Chasing down my blue-dark conversations,
cockatoo creations, I ration thought, chase elation.
Lakes move in their reflections of trees
where light swims with full-floating ease.
A thousand years from now,
love will wonder why it ever lost its vigilance.
Perhaps: dream-crazy midnights, illicit scenes,
walking roughly into grief, casketed in it.
While stars telescope me into new geography.
Gravity climbs down trees and follows me.
from Forest with CastanetsFind more by Diane Mehta at the library
Copyright © 2018 Diane Mehta
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.