Published in Issue 23 of Poetry Hall
On Earth we need drums with which to
call back to the cosmos.
What comes from leaping stone to stone
across a melting mountain flood,
the sense of suspensory electricity
before lightning strikes
(which we all sense when palms touch),
the constellations of light in each iris,
which holds its own personal mythology,
waiting to be unlocked.
What we need is a call and response
an echo of drums across the canyon
a satellite sending signals out into the universe
asking - Am I really here?
And, from solar systems away,
Here I am. Really.
Here.
Emily Richart 