From the Ground Up by Katherine Crawford

With the ingenuity of morning,

gold from the flannel of hours, of paws

padding down paths, small tongues

lapping from forest green ponds,

flower to flower activity by bees and dewfall

a known answer to the questions

in dreams is possible. Escape, no.

What we used to take for granted.


When the pink cheek of sunset slips

into the blue of dusk and white hot stars

clinch the deal, we get it.

It all goes together. What was not said

as well as what needs to be said.

He looks, she looks, squinting to understand

the light that has made its way in,

moon almost full like when you say ooh look

the moon is full tonight. Someone says

no, not quite. As if a night or two before

or after makes a difference. It did.

It does.


Everything counts for something.

Owls’ hoot, dry leaves underfoot, a whistle

for the dog, a song learned in school, bravery

the sky in early evening, any sky.