Virga

We are in the lushness of spring which means that I don garden gloves and polka-dot rubber boots when I’m not at work. Which means that the windows are always open. Which means that there are vases of wildflowers throughout the house. Which means that I carry books everywhere I go and don’t read a word. Which means that I carry binoculars everywhere and accidentally leave them hanging on a fence post overnight. Which means that the assassin bug is in on the blackberry vine. Which means that scrolling on our phones is replaced by watching bluebirds chase away cowbirds. Which means that small, native wildflower seeds I planted a week ago are puckering out of their shells. Which means that baby groundhogs are lounging on the porch of the shed. Which means the racoon is so hungry they pull down the bird feeder completely. Which means that evenings in front of the TV are replaced by evenings watching the jays fly back and forth with peanuts in their beaks. Which means that the square footage of my living space has increased by an acre and a half. Which means I write less and do more. Which means the houseplants are thirsty. Which means that I transplant bloodroot and ferns into our yard. Which means that the wind sent our patio furniture flying, breaking their legs. Which means more bandanas on my head to keep my unruly hair out of my face. Which means, whoa, huge forehead. Which means discovering that the redbud, tulip poplar, serviceberry, and winterberry sticks we planted last year have actually survived the winter and leafed out. Which means that I discover two redbud trees growing in our yard anyway and how did I not notice those last year, thank goodness I didn’t lop them. Which means that my husband discovers a new mulberry sapling and wow, such abundance! Which means a deluge of rain—I mean, it rained all day long, steadily, wonderfully, wow, it didn’t stop at all, all day long! Which means virga, because the next day it looked like it was raining everywhere in the distance but not right where I was, yet somehow, I felt like I was walking through mist but the mist didn’t register on the windshield so was I actually feeling mist? Which means that virga might have been happening—when rain falls but evaporates before it hits the ground. Which means that virga is a form of gaslighting. Which means that virga is here but not here. Which means that virga is so relatable, here but not here. Mysterious but explainable. Which means that I am constantly learning new things, making new connections. Which means that when I do write, I write piss-poor poetry. And that means that I have not much else to share with anyone but this piss-poor poetry and a handful of weeds.

Blessing

When the wind barrels, walk into the tall grass and consider
the assassin bug’s perch on the blackberry vine.
Notice how every few feet there is a miniscule decision
as big as the world. Take a moment,

or several, and put your ear to the trumpet vine
and hear the staccato of the backwards flying bird
and their ruby throat. And when looking up,

see how the leaves pull up the silver blankets
of themselves. And rain falls on them like sparks.

Rain doesn’t know it’s a blessing.
The rose, as many poets have said, does not know its beauty
and has never considered the geometry of itself.

Inside the house, sauce hardens in the pot in kitchen’s time.
A light blinks and a motor whirs.
Tea bags sit silently in wait.
The ice maker in the fridge
receives the mechanized water,
a different kind of blessing.

Mother’s Day

The archive of rain, a mouth opening,
virga.

Downpour and deluge
is May’s voice in the lady slipper’s dreams.
Transcribe her muscled labellum
however you wish:
sacrum, mother.

Untitled

You still recall, sometimes, the algae and scuttle. Rooted in the sandy sediment for that long memory, water is now a phantom limb. You weren’t alone then when the eye was a possibility and the mouth, just mechanism.

It was subterranean, or almost. Roots, autonomic and shallow, rested in the granules. Slime before scale, mouth before teeth. Wing and abdomen just dreams. Under the water, one does not fall from the ledges. Above, the bright monocular eye arches into being and unbeing.

Mostly, though, the unescapable wet. The patience of algae. The arrival of something beyond the ceiling. Vagueness. Variety prompts unpleasantness.

You could have stayed there forever, a small worm in the sand or something unicellular bringing in and voiding out.

Then—you still remember—you felt the rap of movement—a mycelial desire. You turned to the eye’s bright light and walked the tapering floor to the top. An unwetness occurred. Ahead, a table set and a new muscle reached for the food upon it. Remember that day? Your mouth full of flowers?