Clematis
When I reach into the earth
I reach for stars—the rough bump
of seed swelling itself into flesh. When
I search for you in the middle of the night
I move towards the beyond—the curve
of your hip a valley I have walked over
and over like a nomad. The cottonwoods
shed their fluffy seed, the tender grass bolts,
the press of summer is upon us. I shift plants
in moonlight to act out this restless
stirring to spread beyond first planting.
We build only to tear down, to relocate. Tonight
your fingers rub tomato vines, trace the tendrils
of clematis dancing up the lattice on the axis
of the sky. Already we have forgotten the barren
nights. We stand on teetering apple ladders, reaching
for the fruit just beyond the green fur
of leaf—our want a kite tugging to get off
its leash. Then where would we go? Would we find
sky in that floating? Or would we long only
for our feet on the ground, hands in the earth,
mouth upon mouth in a wild, unweeded garden?
