the end of summer

If she planted a mustard seed

somewhere in the dampness

between her liver and kidneys 

she wonders if it would

expand to the edges of her

fingers, if faith could fill her

but she imagines those secret

places squishy, like the history 

of a creek bed, composted 

seasons rotting into fine brown 

silt (the sort of thing life 

might spring from.)

She wonders if there is light

inside the body. Does it slide in 

on a yawn? Disappear slowly on the 

other end of the ear canal, dimming 

as it travels? Does it sift 

through layers of skin losing

strength in shades of blue, 

then purple, before the finality 

of utter blackness—the way

light floats on the surface of the sea,

dives, but never can hold its 

breath to the bottom.

If she pressed the tiny dark kernel

into her own organic material,

waited patiently, through 

dry dust and the sloshing

of rain, would it ever emerge

like the redwood trees

broke the surface of the earth

one summer, generations ago 

and never stopped yearning

for the lightness. 

eternity.

"One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands out and throws one’s head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East almost makes one cry out and one’s heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun—which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with the millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in someone’s eyes."