Elegy for the Ground We Walk On
       

Hurry, the field is folding
itself up, a blanket laundered
for storage, and we're to be
caught in the creases. Don't
lose your footing as the earth
tears from the earth
and upends the grass, first
skyward then down, greenest
bed of needles. We called
ourselves foxcatchers and
paraded through the forest
our dominion over the forest
until all the creatures cowered.
Now, suddenly, our dominion
is denied us, and we must accept
this loss with a kind of grace
we'd previously ascribed only
to gods and saints, but we will
not ascend to majesty—instead,
echoes of our footsteps will puddle
in the streets—should we escape
this folding labyrinth—and not rise,
resounding, as they always have.
This need not be a disaster:
we could better cultivate our sight,
unclench our hands, and learn new
words for a world we do not shape
to our will, but shapes itself—
more pliant than we'd ever believed.

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Copyright © 2021 Brianna Noll All rights reserved
from The Era of Discontent
Elixir Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission