California Quarterly: Idyll

First published in Volume 48, Number 3, Autumn 2022 of California Quarterly

Idyll

O my baby, my child, I would 

make more of you if I had more 

to give. But the world melts in 

rivulets like wax, an effigy of 

bees. The possibilities are slim 

in my small hand. My body is a 

craft of memory, imprinted by 

generational shifts, not wrought 

to shuttle armageddon. I am a 

creature of the wet ground, my 

lungs built on the backs of 

phytoplankton.

If I could I would take you to 

a time that does not exist, I

would wrap you in green blades

and anoint your head with laughter.

We would drink unleaded water

captured in our round mouths,

oblation of the sky, presented 

to every living thread alike. You

would not see the huff of wildfire, 

smoking the pines like long cigars. 

The glow would be the one 

between you and me. We, spry 

and strong, beating our wings 

for warmth, testing our gifts 

for flight. We, burying seeds, 

reciting our thank-yous to the 

trees. They would be the ones 

to breathe us home.