I don’t take these things lightly just because they are in a poem. Light comes from all directions, loops the fanciful around lust and commitment and brings the people who work the land into harmony with those who seek and pray and sing. And those who make poems.
There is a giant Black Locust I pass on my walk. I press my forehead against his mighty trunk, place my newly strengthened hands around his shoulders and push with all my might. He doesn’t move. I breathe deep, gather up, press again harder as I exhale, leaning in with lust, commitment and finally, of course, love. As you might expect, he doesn’t budge, no matter how many times I repeat. He wins the battle, perhaps even the war, but I am closer to my comrades. I am stronger by my loss.
This native Kansas Locust is as masculine as they come; hard, sharpened penises all over his body. But it is a woman’s voice that consoles me after the struggle. You were a worthy opponent, she says, I rather enjoyed your almost imperceptible caress. Let us meet again, as equals, somewhere in another part of the forest, in another body, climbing another, smoother skinned, tree.
I lie still and silent upon soft grasses. I gather up all my loose parts, all my scattered dreams and devotions, all the reasons I keep walking, keep writing, keep watching the sky for illuminated geese, for stars released from the sky, for the first ring of the new moon in the late evening dusk.
For the snow geese to look down and say – you, too, are luminous.