That winter was long and full of records:
snow up to our chests and the chill deep in our cells,
the forever rain and with it, the mud that dripped
like sap and became a part of us.
Then came days of
grass as soft as fleece
bees flying like comets and goats
rotating around the creekbend we followed up until
water water water was all we could hear,
until wild wild wildflowers were all we could see—
a galaxy of them twinkling
their bright violets and yellows and oranges,
a reminder of what has endured
what has always been
what is now ready to be seen.
—
Like a lizard, I bathe naked on a rock
and let the south wind and let the waterfall
and let the buckeye lead me.
The horizon is a line I cannot yet say.
The screen shows me what I haven’t seen in months,
what others see: curves and a blur.
Not a thing, but any thing.
Finally, I am the animal that I am.
Copyright © 2025 by Jennifer Huang. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 8, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
