Roots Wash Themselves in Cloud
looking at clouds swirled with crows
in branches reflecting on the river,
I lost calibration, knowing
the clouds should be up
where I stop to look — stopped looking.
forgot the eyes are delicate instruments
and they read manifold planes
in non-mechanical ways.
inward space projects
emotions into mirrors of possibility:
the sky may be buoyant ground
and roots wash themselves in cloud.
the horizon is a rough gage.
askew butterfly, the heart is,
and eyes are perfect false witness,
aperture to ambient stories in the glass
the horizon, the self
in the reflection,
continents of cloud and blue branch
and crows crow tall tales.
imperfect symmetries are held
where roots rasp through airy soil,
where my flapping heart is, winged.
Jessica Lee McMillan © 2021