Being #3

Sometimes the eye must rise, leave the ground,

to see what's coming, what to hunt or harvest.

The head holds a wide horizon, poised

atop a tall backbone, rigged to the feet,

enabling us to keep an even keel.

Other days our eye's at meadow-level,

seeking roots, berries. Backbone bends

and folds, intent on things within our grasp—

we want our hands to dig, to sculpt, our arms

to catch, to cradle, our lips to give a kiss.

What makes us stand and stretch? What kind of bones

know the shape of home, crave its kinship,

its warming touch of skin on skin, and yet

set sail, turn their face to the unknown?

© Simon Brod, 2022