Lower than grass,
working the segments
that are its brilliance,
the millipede crosses
the path. My foot
is a measuring stick,
a clumsy hoof that missed
a step
as I miss
my patience, how it
measured me
before I could appreciate it.
I listen to the birds
quiet their songs
as the sun warms
everything. Life is a retreat
and a rising,
a puff of dust
and a touch of dew.
Each grass blade shades
some parsonage,
some pang more keenly felt
for the harm
that’s passing over.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 2.
Cecelia Hagen is the author of Entering (Airlie Press), Among Others (Traprock Books), and Fringe Living (26 Books Press) and the recipient of fellowships and awards from Literary Arts, MacDowell, Playa, and Soapstone. Her work has appeared in New Ohio Review, Guesthouse, Zócalo Public Square, On the Seawall, High Desert Journal, Zyzzyva, EcoTheo, and elsewhere. She lives in western Oregon, where she teaches writing and works on developing a program to persuade hunters to switch to lead-free ammunition.
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