I tried to remain true
to the life story,
to the moss covered stones and trees
not always growing on the north side
but rather everywhere in the damp.
I tried to render the nature
beautiful, or at least accurate
and to feel authentic in my making.
The man made detritus scattered
across the grounds had a different quality
than that of the city.
It was wood or stone or brick,
but never plastic -
never garbage really -
just building materials cast aside
perhaps for use at a later date.
I found the traces of all this human activity
amid the snow and the mud and lichen,
like from another century -
and I could see myself, trace myself,
making slow progress
marking time with my machine
and passing my hands again and again
across the face of it all.
When you were a girl
you learned early to draw a rainbow,
ancient markers forming crust,
vehicles for transformation.
were beings unto themselves,
not merely symbols.
Dancing across the paper
they spoke real words
about power and ownership
The world stepped in,
looming large, bleak.
The world spoke words:
feminine, fragile, innocent
light. Is girlhood.
You shook your head
because your truth was so much
A primal arch
like the space beneath your ribcage,
pushing up and up
pressing breath away,
erupting from your mouth.