Let me green every turn toward aspen.
Let me move, always seeing
the scarred and prophetic.
Let me believe in vulnerable sprouting,
and learn verses of water
in alluvial soil. And then dream
that versions of fragile
can somehow reverse.
This isn’t a litany
with no reason. Life wants
another morning, wants to feed
on the prosperous mountain,
to enumerate roots again, to peak
off the grief. Let us each begin
fresh with attention. Let us see
succulence, the casual desert. Let us be
less anxious each time
the trees shuffle. Over years
of Julys, we have learned
to expect wreckage in mountains.
Now I learn to lean low to sweet roses
to count whatever is rising,
to follow whatever is recently back.
This poem first appeared in Turquoise Door (3: A Taos Press, 2018).
—
Lauren Camp serves as New Mexico Poet Laureate. She is the author of eight books of poetry, most recently In Old Sky (Grand Canyon Conservancy, 2024). An Astronomer-in-Residence at Grand Canyon National Park, Camp received the Dorset Prize, finalist commendations for the Arab American Book Award and Adrienne Rich Award, and fellowships from the Academy of American Poets and Black Earth Institute. Her poems have been translated into Mandarin, Turkish, Spanish, French, and Arabic. www.laurencamp.com
