March 11th
The sky is thick and gray
much like Portland, so today you are the sky
which takes both of our breath and throws it
like a sword into the sun where I promise
we have made shit into gold; do you remember
how hard we have laughed?
I eat oatmeal (you will too) and run
my thumb over a water rock who has kept his body
sacred amidst violent winters, crayfish legs, dislocation
and death no less, but quiet this silver heart
enfolded in my hand reminds me of you and it is
so profound what grace you’ve made of rapids
unfurling as bodies in savasana, you are a double master
that reminds me I am process not object
and so I should laugh.
I think of you whenever I see grass or arrowheads
and in March when the land thaws into the sun,
“isn’t that yoga?” I ask the sky (you)
and with a tear thank our parents
who brought us to the water where we, hand in hand,
went deep enough to float
and every time I surrender
it is with you in my heart.