it may feel

tenuous

so much of this seems predicated on phantom 1s, zeroes, grids & presidents

remember what is true, what is real

a deer ambling into the bramble of an overgrown blueberry patch
at last light
a trail of fireflies sparkling behind her like a golden bridal veil

there are deer, there are fireflies, there are blueberries, still

children around your table, grandchildren or a dog underfoot
cotton and wool
flint, boots,
a cache of seeds, oils, a pantry full of grains and beans, bundles of dried herbs, a cellar of roots
a deep well, a spring, or a stream and some vessels
steel, wood, stone, charcoal
pictographs, petroglyphs

cell-deep stories

strings, drums, flutes

a few poems — memorized, recited, improvised

hands near your own as you
birthe, work, live, fight, grieve, survive — and then die

and right now, in this exact moment

the waxed Moon in a clear sky
and air, conveyed and cooled across a great lake

rendering 1s, zeroes, grids & presidents

inessential,

disessential,

on this July night