this is what moves me,

wild, open green

holding up the fog with pointed fingers,

a fence of vacant spiderwebs, a patch of wildflowers,

a toppled sign reading Janet Morris Memorial Garden.

i want to find out how many strides stretch

between me and the treeline,

to hold the hands which

buried the bulbs and scattered the seeds,

to know the woman

for whom the milkweed and the irises grow.

all in the same moment

i hear a bark echo from the ribs of a dog,

a bullet spit from the metal mouth of a shotgun,

the jarring cry of a crow,

a distant highway’s mechanical thrum.

dawn spills over us, me and the earth

and all its music,

day breaking like the yolk of an egg

in the cast iron skillet of night,

like God’s yellow highlighter

drug across the green page of this moment.

two sunlit bodies go still at the sight of mine,

a doe and her fawn, frozen in the tallgrass.

i gaze, unflinching,

wondering,

what metaphor could ever suffice here?

we were strangers, minutes ago

padding softly through our lives,

now face to beautiful face, unmoving,

yet never in my little life

so moved.