New Favorite Poem

Of Worms, Streams, and Mossy Robes

I change into the woods. Moss robes
my shoulders; my branches exhale air.
Crows walk on my grassy back. I am
emerald blades beneath their feet.

As soil, I shiver with the quivering of worms,
tunnel with them in ochre clay, taste
moist salty depths. Then I suffer coats
of gravel, to revel in road's hard rise --

its caroming through dense green
toward sun-flung orbs. I learn
to tremble with lake's yearning
for the touch of her fingerling streams,

feel wisps of fog caress her banks.
As a cloud, I drop my face to lap
at my likeness in water. As the moon,
I shimmer the lake, shiver to chants

of frogs. Soon, as owls in the treetops,
I will throb with fervor for the feast.

--Joanne Uppendahl
from her book, "She Who Gathers Stones"
available at Amazon.com