by Kathleen Kraft
What happens here is vast and particular—I am just one bulk
of movement among the green wave
of trees. The nettles brush my fingertips when I’m not looking,
and I love the itch, the sting that remains.
I am happy with the cow whose head is bent down fully
admitting her interest in the grass. My heart beats hungry
on the road. There is nothing like this brazen solitude,
this freedom to be sad, where sadness is another growing thing
or element, like the stillness of the broccoli-headed mountain
or the rusted harrow nailed to the pasture’s open space.
Kathleen Kraft received her MFA in Creative Writing from Sarah Lawrence College and is a student at the Writer’s Studio in New York City. She has been published on anderbo.com and prose-poems.com. She lives with her fiance in Jersey City, NJ, where she teaches creative movement.