I’m sorry I was late

For Fern

I’m sorry I was late, I was distracted

by a muskrat. I had every intention of coming

to your workshop, pen and notebook

ready, but I took a walk and chanced

upon a muskrat in the back

pond, a sleek wet triangle

pulling a fresh-chewed bundle of reeds

in its mouth, longer than its submerged body

in the algae-spotted calm, and was arrested,

I had to get closer,

so I stumbled down the weed strewn ditch

heedless of ticks, to crouch, breath lodged

in my throat like a stone, to watch this V

of reeds and fur beeline through the meandering

ruddy ducks, straight to me and all my frozen limbs,

and the redwing blackbirds were singing

and the frogs were croaking and oh,

I knew I was late, but I couldn’t tear

myself away, the breeze a gift

on my face and I thought this is gratitude,

and I couldn’t bear

to be inside

four closed walls again.

Grasslands National Park in 50,000 Blinks

If humans blink 20 times a minute, let me

stretch

my wonder by hours so I can look upon the

vastness

of grass anchoring the world. I struggle

to pin down

my awe, fail.

An ocean of stems,

infinity of leaf blades and sheaths,

unending plate of grass under a bowl of sky.

Spear grass,

wheat grass,

blue gramma.

Blink once,

twice

a hundred times,

the bend and sway

are not the same.

I stretch my eyelids to catch

the corners of my vision but I can’t grasp

its edges. There are no

trees to bracket my sight.

The horizon orbits me

like a moon.

When I did become so small?

I am

an ant,

a fly speck,

the blink of an eye.