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Move toward the sky.
The present moment is always wide open,
calling down possibility.

Quiet, this poets’ path,
Save for
The cracking moan of ice on ground,
pressing as into birth.

Save for the voices of children,
like small birds calling
from beyond the tree line.

We turn toward the sounds
of happiness.
Toward the
trees rising up to begin again.

That tree reminds me
that change is inescapable

But a snake in the grass
is unexpected poetry,
a sudden serpentine motion
teasing warmth from earth.

Fear stands between me and the horizon.
I wish I could escape all evidence of roads.
Notice how all living things are reaching upward.
This includes the one who is noticing.

Being away, always, all ways.
Unruly stones and windblown stems
speak of the body slipping
speak to the body slipping.

That tree reminds me
that change is inescapable.
Her heart-shaped yellow leaves
will eventually cover the ground,
leaving her bare.
She lets go again and again and again.
What could the bones of the trees tell us?


Are we the ice?
Are we the wind?
Are we causing a new micro-climate to form?
Can we observe, without impact,
every shade of muted brown?
Can we choose a path
without changing the path?

Lost in a sea of sideoats grama,
the fire burning in my wake.
Goodbye, my darling dream of encircled beauty.

That long ago ocean of grasses
led us to a graveyard dug
for all those who voyage too far from home.

Drowning and soaking up the past,
a version of us cannot return.

It’s been flooded, scraped, swamped, blown,
trampled, bulldozed, dug, plowed, planted, abandoned.
Is plowed soil forever changed?

Grind down the bones of the trees.
Allow whatever wants to
to come up.

You can’t stop it anyway.

That tree reminds me
what it means to be alive.

This place has always been
in the process of becoming,
always, all ways.

This place has always been
born again to faith,
born again to hope,
always, all ways.

The hand of man,
temporarily powerful,
laid claim
to the bones of the trees,
to the ocean of grasses,
to every shade of muted brown.

Man laid claim
to hope,
but there is a way
always, all ways.

Move toward the sky.
The present moment is always wide open,
calling down possibility.

This is the way
always, all ways.

That tree reminds me
that change is inescapable.

Contributing poets:
Dee Abate
Cheryl Cox
Amanda Dickson
Dawn Sopron
Jessica Campbell (editor and narrator)