the grieving stick: harvest.

we are all harvestable.

yesterday: flicker.
harvested from the woods by a small child
body found still warm, feathers still scented with sap wood.
The child comments only on its deadweight.

Last night: soft pink cloud harvested by the lake
drinking light as if it could be thirsty.
also: spider.
accidentally harvested with the marigolds
found pacing along the rim of the laptop.
Almost instantly forgotten, I was surprised to come back
this morning: spider still hovering, humming, trying to keep its own vibration against the warm computer.
How could I forget such a life?
A marigold stem
that has rested all night an arm’s length away
-a human arm’s length-
is finally offered.
Spider exhales onto the stem, and rides weightless
into the light rain
a harvest returned.

today: an old treasured tree in England
harvested by young, wounded hands.
300 years it thickened
next to some great wall of quest and conquer. 
Though I comb the article for a name
it never bothers to mention
what kind of tree now
susurrates supine.

Does it know
how we loved it?
how it became a target?
Did it know flicker? 
Is spider there now, weaving
From a different angle?
What do trees consent to?
Tree and truth have the same etymology.

It was beloved.
It was beautiful.
Our truths are not separate.
We are all harvestable.