ANYWHERE PARTICULAR
“We are all indigenous to some place.” Randy Woodley
Like buttercups and daisies
my roots sprawl and spread
but don’t belong
anywhere particular.
I have tried being part of a garden
but scorn and scolding have discouraged me
from flaunting my yellow bit
of the day’s praise.
Nobody plants me.
I find my tribe in blue-weed and chicory
and the weeds
that turn the roadside
into a sanctuary.
My roots are seasonal
and ephemeral.
Like all time.
Like all space.
They belong everywhere
and nowhere.
ORION FOUND MY NAME
Orion found my name on a genealogy site
and wrote to let me know
that our grandfathers were siblings.
I've seen him shining a million times
and never knew
we were so closely related.
Just a few generations separate us,
that, and a few billion years
of distance, across the universe.
We look for family traits.
Astonishing similarities
confirm our connection.
I ask him about the arthritis in my shoulders--
the same as my mom's and my brother's.
"Congenital," he says, "We all have it.
Being part of a spiral galaxy takes its toll
on a body, but just look
at how we shine."
Wendy Jean MacLean is an award-winning poet with three books, several collaborations with Canadian composers. Published in Presence, Streetlight, Crosswinds, Gathering, Green Spirit, she is a spiritual director and minister.
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