TRANSMIGRATION

 

Remember living in the red squirrel’s heart?
You feel her necessity when the first leaves fall.
You can recall the rabbit’s silence,
you dream the hunger of bears and bees.

Remember when you saw through spider’s eyes,
when you soared with vulture’s wings?
Remember breaking the surface of the sea,
breaching and blowing and slapping your flukes?

You were once a pasture oak–
brown cattle took shelter in your shade.
And once you were a yellow dog
searching the midden for bones.

Your mycelium has threaded the forest floor,
and once your shaggy mane
pushed up through decay that was your food.
You know you’ve been decay.

You’ve condensed in the tumult of a cloud,
sparked above a smoky fire.
You’ve known the cold of rain on stone,
You’ve dried and browned and burned.

You will lay your eggs in shallow ponds
and learn the taste of mud.
At sunrise, some late summer,
you will learn to spin a web.

Remember when you were the scent
of marigolds, of corn.
Remember being grass–
all the winter long you hunger after green.

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