Earth

David Waltner-Toews
From:   The Malahat Review 2003. (A Terzanelle)

At birth, from Edvard Munsch-like mouths, we're yanked awake,
earth-bound, jacked out like calves, or slipped
from our good breeding, into chilly-skinned no-clothes, into the ache

of teat-warm happiness in straw. And then we're schlepped
under plum-yellow maple leaves, a dream out of the bursting blue,
earth-bound, jacked out like calves, or slipped

out just to take the air, to take a little light post-partum cool
music, notes blowing free like socks on the line. Wandering
among plum-yellow leaves, we dream out of the bursting blue

of seven happy minutes of blackbirds, windrowing
over the maple by the cornfield, making a score of
music notes blowing free like socks in the wind, wondering

on this apple-skinned fall day if we only fall to the shore of
the air-sea, our lives but seeds for trees for blackbirds to fly again
over, the maple by the cornfield, making a score of

years pass without noticing, full of jobs, kids born & raised, pies baked,
and on this day I wish for nothing more but to wind-swim, a swain
of the air-sea, our lives but seeds for trees for blackbirds, to fly again
from our good breeding, into chilly-skinned no-clothes, into the ache.

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David Waltner-Toews' works copyright © to the author.