Your bright eyes push up into blue
and your limbs, like stalks,
climb the air with slight steps,
as if the atmosphere never pressed
its weight into you. Lifting,
as if light is thin and splits
to make way for you.
You taste of sunbeam and pollen.
My tendrils pull me taut,
tether me heavy to the dirt
where I can't pull free
from root or worm.
Drudging, as if light is glue,
an emission confining me.
If only I could pluck a petal
from your fingertips and place it
between my ear and the earth,
I would hear the rush of the sky.
Trish Hopkinson has always loved words—in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. She has two chapbooks Emissions and Pieced Into Treetops and has been published in several anthologies and journals, including Stirring, Chagrin River Review, and The Found Poetry Review. Trish is co-founder of a local poetry group, Rock Canyon Poets. She is a product director by profession and resides in Utah with her handsome husband and their two outstanding children. You can follow her poetry adventures at trishhopkinson.com.