My shoulder waits
if you need to lean,
the world too big,
the land turned brown,
from greener pastures
left to dust,
that turn your tears
into mist, woven
like scales upon
the toad, oh
lean in sister,
your song is old.
And if your shoulder
should wait for me,
while mother fades –
her memory a
ghostlike thing,
tales worn down,
the past so far
the ground is lost,
the feet stumble as
each rock impedes,
if I lean in
will you hold on?
If we lean on
each other’s pain
perhaps the earth
will heal again
and bring the redwood
from the soil up
to heaven’s door
stepping toward
the stratosphere.
Into longing each
species greets
the other likewise
holding on –
to shoulders leaning
into sound, of
holy ones, our mother
earth, and all she
loves, whether life
or dirt, the leaning
heals for what it’s worth.
6/15/2018
Anne's mediocre poetry 