Reverence

Grace Young

The grass has been woven together with mist

by knowing hands–

a quilt of patchwork green for the deer and coyotes.

I am nestled in the roots beneath boulders–

granite like the voice of a charmer.

There’s a knot in-between my ribs that I try to rub out,

but she’s stubborn and prideful and I’m too tense.

I want the mist to tuck me in to a bed of pine needles,

turned soft and fragile by harsh weather.

I need something to worship–

So, I will lay my head in the soft lap of a lover,

plucking dark cherries from the stems and

close my eyes against the bright light of midday.

I will call a friend who knew me as a nine year old girl–

dressed in cheetah print and turquoise.

I will put on my strongest socks and climb a mountain,

bathe in the light of the evening sun,

change into a dress that sways on its own, and

find a dance floor made of hardwood and old love.

I will go home early and weave a tapestry,

of warm orange lighting and green leather couches,

decorated with stained-glass lamps like my great grandmother had.

It will look like my eyes when they're bright with love

and like the friends I would easily die for.

I will hang it in my living room,

and on days when the sky is white and

the mist is knocking on the windows,

I will watch it like a tv.