Mother(land)

Total forgiveness came all at once,
and I left that place.

The tides are a reluctant meditation,
spring rich with blue water
and green with grass and comparison.

It’s like the Earth was between my palms
and I whispered, this could all be mine
if I let it go.

And the dirt slipped from between my fingers,
and I washed off the dust in the ocean.

This bunch of holly is an apology,
a stinging dark leaf, cutting sharp,
and a red berry bitten between clenched teeth.

It’s like I lay on a bed of moss
and I whispered, I can stay here
if I let it go.

And the bugs crawled in my hair,
and the chipmunks slept in the ground beneath me.

The Kentucky goldenrod is a silent truce,
saying nothing, swaying in the yellow wind
and loosening pollen into the air.

It’s like I looked over the river as a child 
and I whispered, we can heal 
if I let it go. 

And I left that place, 
and total forgiveness came all at once.