like Hey mercury, hey malachite, I’m busy today,
can’t stop to marvel, but always my blood is saying
O god you starsprung miracle. It’s self-preservation,
letting myself believe laundry matters,
letting myself believe there’s anything other than
egrets and oceans and vast moss carpets and
the finite heart of every single person I love.
Earth, you terrify me—you are fierce green
and honeysuckle, you are herds of wild ponies,
and you are leaving, always. Is it any wonder
some days I look at my laptop instead of out
the window? Every time I glance up
there you are, quaking me with your fern fronds
and silver frost. O you of the rhyolite mountains.
You of the dew-hung web. You are lemon quartz
and quicksand. Muskrats and starfish. How
could I be any way but staggered? O blue spruce,
O white fir, O green forever, you know
my nonchalance is a sham. It’s so hard to admit
our real desires. Earth, what I want is to sit gentle
under your twilight purple, watch your bats
hunt and dive. What I want is to know about
endings and still love each wingbeat, each shade
of the boundless, darkening sky.
This poem first appeared in Sierra Magazine and will appear in Dear Beast (Saturnalia, 2026).
—
Catherine Pierce is the author of five poetry collections, including Danger Days and the forthcoming Dear Beast (Saturnalia Books), as well as of a forthcoming memoir, Foxes for Everybody (Northwestern University Press). A recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts and the Academy of American Poets, she served as Poet Laureate of Mississippi from 2021 to 2025.
