Today I met a storyteller who would tell me a story about climate change––but only in exchange for a poem.
She brought me a pen and a pad of paper. I sat on her porch by the sea with a cup of tea.
I was nervous. Then this poem happened.
…
AT CLAIRVIEW
The wind does not touch
the blue plastic swing
hanging from the tree’s
horizontal limb.
The grass here is a
sponge. Sometimes
the sea rises &
sometimes she falls.
When the moon rises
(in the east, of course)
the stories hang
thick like rope––
chain––orchid eyes.
I wish I were
strong, absorbent,
able to churn
& let anything
wash over my body.
The horizon––blue––
unhinges me.
Watch as I greet
what comes.
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Beautiful. Simply beautiful.
Thanks, Maya! So glad you liked it.