Sarina Bosco

My soul has been a raven among the pines
and I have not known until
now. This heavy body, speaking nonsense to the aspen trees,
stumbling through the sage.

At the turn of the season I wait on the roadside
for the sunflowers to seed.
Loosen the husks from the heart
of the plant and go somewhere far away with them.

Repeat the sounds that humans make and wonder if
I can give meaning to what is inside of me,
the bones and the rustle of grass and the naming
of constellations
where they tilt above the mountain pass.

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