Everyone sleeps but I am risen with the sun,
and the grass wets with cold and freshness
above my knees, softly then under the trees
through the fence. Down now, to be seen
is to be caught. Scramble up a cliffside
scraping, stinging, and brambles hold me down.
The trees at the top are quiet again. And up the
hill to the open rocks drying. Warming waiting
for my curled body. Berries nestled deep in green
leaves, field enclosed by trees. Hidden, hiding me.
Here I see the lake, it begins to wake. I watch
and am watched by none but the birds. Â
2025 Jacqueline Jackson
This article appears in Home and Garden.
