Red sap runs in me,
says clock time’s a farce,
only the roll past of seasons,

hunt for water, sun, food
turns the blood,
turns the blood true.

Walk out,
see me as I see you
in a restless, run-ahead way,

sight like a dog let loose
gone lickety split down the road
who won’t easily be called home.

Hearing waits, lags behind seeing,
a lazy cat curled in a corner,
stores up birdsong to savor later.

Grains are wind merchants,
ripples bent on commerce,
transacting new destinations,

hope to be lifted off stalk and stem.
Seed scatters like prodigals,
they already plan their next lives.

The soul wants transplant like that
sudden, stunningly flung out
but the body is wary, quakes and clings.

Where I root, it is loose,
temporary, an easy tug,
almost an aerobe, nomad of thought and ethers.

Pine sees me as gadfly
foolish, moving too often,
not honoring place.

Stones’ wisdom,
if on a giant’s path, pray his step
be light, soon pass you over.

Rabbit warns
when storms begin
seek shelter, eat often.

©2007, Dale Harris

Dale Harris is a potter and a nurse practitioner working in the HIV field who has made her home in Central New Mexico since 1993. She edits Central Avenue, a monthly poetry journal that sponsors regular open mic readings in Albuquerque, NM. Her poems have been widely anthologized in print and in online journals Fickle Muses, Santa Fe Poetry Broadside and St. Vitus Dance. Her poetry & music CDs are available online at CD Baby and a number of digital distribution sites.

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