late spring wind sounds an ocean
through new leaves. later the same
wind sounds a tide. later still the dry
sound of applause: leaves chapped
falling, an ending. this is a process.
the ocean leaping out of ocean
should be enough. the wind
pushing the water out of itself;
the water catching the light
should be enough. I think this
on the deck of one boat
then another. I think this
in the Salish, thought it in Stellwagen
in the Pacific. the water leaping
looks animal, looks open mouthed,
looks toothed and rolling;
the ocean an animal full
of other animals.
what I am looking for doesn’t matter.
that I am looking doesn’t matter.
I exert no meaning.
a juvenile bald eagle eats
a harbor seal’s placenta.
its head still brown.
this is a process. the land
jutting out, seals hauled out,
the white-headed eagles lurking
ready to take their turn at what’s left.
the lone sea otter on its back,
toes flopped forward and curled;
Friday Harbor: the phone booth
the ghost snare of a gray whale’s call;
an orca’s tooth in an orca’s skull
mounted inside the glass box.
remains. this is a process.
three river otters, two adults, a pup,
roll like logs parallel to the shore.
two doe, three fawns. a young buck
stares, its antlers new, limned gold
in sunset. then the wind again:
a wave through leaves green
with deep summer, the walnut’s
green husk. we are alive in a green
crashing world. soon winter.
the boat forgotten. the oceans,
their leaping animal light, off screen.
past. future. this is a process. the eagles
at the river’s edge cluster
in the bare tree. they steal fish
from ducks. they eat the hunter’s
discards: offal and lead. the juveniles
practice fighting, their feet tangle
midair before loosing. this
is a process. where they came from.
for how long will they stay.
that I am looking doesn’t matter.
I will impose no meaning.
From You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World (Milkweed Editions, 2024), edited by Ada Limón. Copyright © 2024 Milkweed Editions and the Library of Congress. Used with the permission of the author. Published in Poem-a-Day on April 6, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.
i stand before you to say
that today i walked home
& caught the light through
the fence & it was so golden
i wanted to cry & i lifted
my right hand to say thank
you god for the sun thank
you god for a chain link fence
& all the shoes that fit into
the chain link fence so that
we might get lifted god thank
you & i just wanted to dance
& it feels good to have food
in your belly & it feels good
to be home even when home
is the space between metal
shapes & still we are golden
& a man who wore the walk
of hard grounds & lost days
came toward me in the street
& said ‘girl what a beautiful
day’ & i said yes, testify
& i walked on & from some
place a horn rose, an organ,
a voice, a chorus, here to tell
you that we are not dead
we are not dead we are not
dead we are not dead we are
not dead we are not dead
we are not dead we are not
dead
yet
Copyright © 2022 by Eve L. Ewing. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 28, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.
We’d lift gin from your mother’s cabinet
and walk the hallways of Robert Asp Middle
taking swigs in plain sight from a 20 oz
Pepsi Clear, your gap tooth flashing
at teachers we passed, your hands forgetting
to pass the bottle, screwing and unscrewing
the cap. After that I moved. We lost track.
The news was six months old by the time
I heard. When they don’t say what happened
you know what happened. We used to catch
rides from highschoolers out to the Red to jump
the bridge. Water thick with clay. Red with clay.
We kept close watch for underwater logs.
Smoked Menthols. A 40-foot drop into swirls
of currents. One time you stayed under
and kicked downstream to trick me. Nervous,
I stared at the surface for signs. No signs.
I stumbled down the bank to dive in.
The moment you were certain you had me
the valley cracked with your laughter.
Copyright © 2026 by Anders Carlson-Wee. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 27, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.