Tall Grass

I am 46 years old. What

could that possibly mean?

I sit in a 107-year-old house

listening to a 70-year-old tree

drop one green-frilled acorn

after another like rim shots

on the roof. No more children

for me, but my magic blood

circulates in near-silence

like a hidden river. I melt

into my chair. I meet the air

with my every open surface,

autonomically drawing it in

to feed the red flow. Where

I once felt a coiled no, I now

feel gilled, a creature who is

learning to swim with purpose.

And thank heavens for lack

of heaven. And thank this oak

for this oak. And tear down

every kingdom so that we

might enter the free school

of the forest, the free school

of the ocean, the free school

of the meadow, which writhes

upon antenna and whisker

and the stirring of tall grass.

I am a tree and a river and

a tall, tall grass. I am 46.