Home to Her Island


A woman who has been living in the cottonwood tree takes the shoe from her green
window and brushes away empty cocoons and spider webs. It’s been a long time and she
doesn’t know if she broke in or out. The limp no longer reminds her of anything.
Listen to the wreck feeding in the dark. You might like to think it’s only an old
Edsel with a few stray heads of wheat climbing through the broken window, but it’s too
late to vote against symbolism. Some things that seem accidental were just waiting but
not these. All red stones must now prove their innocence.
When you have only the sky to look up to, it’s easy to feel small. It’s too easy to
look at things the way something else sees them.
Ghostly widows of fog rise early from the cornrows, their pale blue tracks
softening and sliding up and away, evaporating into the brightening horizon.
“The best embrace loss; the worst worship it.” That’s what the remaining landscape
has been teaching so much longer than we can know.

Changed, utterly changed. As it would be even if no one had noticed. As it might
appear to a traveler sitting in a chair, floating his thoughts on inkskin. It might bring you
back on the eve of your salvation to that which you had spent your life escaping. What
we’re going to learn from this is more than it could be because we’re more than is
possible. We’re beyond ourselves.

Knock, knock.
I’m still my home.
Come back later when later is now. I’ll be there in my river, traveling isolated,
traveling tall and green.

Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.