15 May Brushstroke, by Kaiya Mongrain
Who brushed horizons open,
Spilled dawn into river’s mouth,
Draped blue ’cross mountain’s shoulders?
Who folded hush into thunder’s pause,
Wove hoarfrost across the ribs of stone,
Taught roots to listen ‘neath loam’s dark pulse?
I step barefoot into its breath,
No stranger and no intruder—
I’m only the wind stitched to my lungs,
Only my skin recalls leaf-light’s touch.
Maple veins burn red within me,
Aspen eyes stretch over my bones.
Cricket-song rattles my marrow,
In my blood glowflies kindle lanterns.
The world doesn’t paint itself around me.
I am a brushstroke, pigment, shadow;
Not separate, but scattered,
A glimmer of seeping light
Spilled on the vast canvas,
Still wet with becoming.