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When small, I learned awe in my questions
the earth didn't answer: Why is snow silence?
What is the grace of darting dragonflies?
How do fallen leaves smell like home?
Season after season of seeking, I traveled
the pathless places, viewing magnified
the centers of flowers, interpreting the rustling
of trees, peeking under rocks to reveal dirt worlds
inhabited by worms squirming, shiny-backed beetles bustling,
arthropods armored and ambling.
A spider's journey across my palm — thrilling
yet still a mystery. What did it mean?
Nature kept her secrets and I kept mine,
not adding bisexual to my vocabulary until I was seventeen and my friend
confided in me and I thought Oh, there it is, the chrysalis of me.
I love people like I love trees. Is a larch deciduous
or conifer? Is a monkey puzzle needle or thorn?
Yes.
Give me a fern's unfurling,
a woman's knowing smile,
a lichen's branching,
a man's hand cupped,
a person's unique mark on life like rings in heartwood.
I am home to forests, ever-growing. I lift the rocks of me
to see what shiny, dancing lives exist underneath.