by Lauren Camp
It could be looser: only one
earth smell and the next.
False. When it got to that, to every morning the swirling
harbor with its geese
pedals and shoulders parched deep in cool sport in opposite
directions, you couldn’t
find comfort. When left to walk by the zelkova and pin oak,
to make tracks between willow and cedar, why
did the scene seem to stifle? Buildings flared
with light and you with no key
to inside. All the leftover haste had become lesser wing. Still,
you might have seen it
a language. Through windows, solemn
students invisibly wrote new code to add trust
to the meandering softness of mosses.
If no one spoke
your name then the leaves and leaves’ end.
The damp jacket. Not long after this everything would fall.
The bare trees would list ancient apologies.
You had shuttled between many people, chasing down zeal.
You were free in this world
to make room for the sizable quiet.
::
Lauren Camp serves as New Mexico Poet Laureate. She is the author of eight books of poetry, most recently In Old Sky (Grand Canyon Conservancy, 2024). A former Astronomer-in-Residence at Grand Canyon National Park, Camp is a recipient of the Dorset Prize, finalist commendations for the Arab American Book Award and Adrienne Rich Award, and fellowships from the Academy of American Poets and Black Earth Institute. Her poems have been translated into Mandarin, Turkish, Spanish, French, and Arabic. www.laurencamp.com
Image: lemahijo_ pg
ID: moss close-up.
Psaltery & Lyre 