In the land where trees still stand
branch to branch and root to root,
where green sunlight trickles down
like dew, to bless the flowers
underfoot, I will stand still.
See how the trillium blooms,
starlike, fanning through the gloom
swaths of a blue Milky Way.
There constellations are made
and unmade in a twinkling.
Blink and miss this certain cue
to linger. Don’t think too hard,
do not try to understand.
Just stand and let your fingers
explore the low-lying leaves
and twining vines. Let the breeze
straighten out your thoughts like hair.
Stare and stare, without a care,
in a way, I dare you, too.
A Pushcart Prize nominee, Deborah H. Doolittle is author of Floribunda and three chapbooks, No Crazy Notions, That Echo, and Bogbound. Some of her poems have appeared (or will soon appear) in Comstock Review, Ibbetson Street, Iconoclast, Pinyon Review, Rattle, Slant, The Stand, and in audio format on The Writer’s Almanac.
