At noon, in red roots,
a short path regards the sun’s challenge, as if we carried wishbone shadows, and I watched like a stranger tormented by the closeness of everything.

In the heart of spring, (you know it) new chapters paint themselves, fog lifts slowly, as colors bloom along this brightened heart, beneath solitude.

Listen, they flood with chatter,
the tiny, gnawing lives— all the movements above, remembering angles, as insects take their time, in essence, for it is all hallowed ground beneath our feet.

Give me your hand and we’ll walk, through this landscape of change, where loamy fields spill secrets,
and the light bows silently beneath us.

• Muriel Rukeyser