A prose poem

Not as a distraction from, but as a reminder of…

I bear witness to the small, growing things. The ephemeral things. From the rarefied gay wings and fire pinks to the common, bold dandelion. When I feel powerless to change things, overwhelmed with the ways in which I am complicit in all that is bad in the world— climate change, racial injustice, and even family quarrels—I bear witness to the small, growing things. I bear witness to the summer ephemerals, the mushrooms—the chicken of the woods, puff balls, and spotted fairy amanitas—so fragile yet emerging in perfection through layers of mountain soil, leaves, and lichen. And to the red, orange, and yellow bright flames of maples in autumn. I bear witness to the first frost, to the brackets and turkey tails stair-stepping on long stumps of toppled trees. On my belly with my camera, stones poking me, moss soft and damp against my upper arm like a lover’s kiss. On the ground, the sharp scent of earth, of growing things, of rotting things, the aroma of life emerging and reemerging, I bear witness.