At Blue Mountain

Two loons on a lake
in the evening fog,
air thick with it,
pale water barely moving.

I’m like a days-old fawn
setting out for the grasses—
I’m nimble again,
I smell like the hollows.

Once, I wanted only sounds
and scents of another human—
I founded islands with my body
and we lived there, expectant.

Now, I want to take the whole world in,
to bear it back to brightness.
I feel this suddenly,
like fire in high summer
or lightning.

Posted by kind permission of Holly Wren Spaulding.