murmurs

Every landscape is a dream, 
or if not the land itself, though it may be, 
then the one who watches, who walks, 

the dreamer who thinks about the land, 
names the trees, points out asters or gentians, 
but who doesn’t only think, 
though she may think she’s only thinking. 

Secretly, in her uncharted blood, as she walks or stands, 
notices, names, counts -- even as she pauses 
among abstracted grasses, uploading photos 
to a phone app -- she’s undergoing 
everything in this panoramic world. 

Her feet glancing the fathomless reach 
of the roots and the endless remaking 
of the rocks, the air surrendering ruined molecules of decades 
and oceans, birds plotting their course south, north, 
or to other dimensions altogether, across trackless seas -- 

she may as well be asleep, aware in that way, 
buoyed and lofted through a series of unthought passages, 
a breeze sweeping her hair, dislodging a strand 
into the ceaseless current. 

She feels unannounced, 
inevitable, born into her body, found nowhere 
but here, blanketed by purple flowers whose true 
names will never be known, though she murmurs them 
as she stirs.


© MMWms 2020 

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