under motion

slow enough not to blur
but going along so you don't really see
what is beneath
the length and lean,
with almost insectual precision-
pod to pavement
in snow and ceremonial rain
and in the sun
drying her wet and aching limbs
muscles flex and release in a rhythm
inspired by what takes time to perceive.


the urgency pressing behind
lurid and decisive eyes;
what injustice and iniquity
have not taken away
transforms and a tree grows from her left fist
quickening on the vernal equinox
no leaves
only the twisted bark of memories
cradling veridical thought
in boughs.