'In a Cabin' and 'Moment in the Mourning'

Genevieve Marvin

In a Cabin

This yellow morning light mixes
with blue water

rises with mist
off the lake, dancing and twirling round.

Warm pink palms
pale on my stomach,

when you let out a breath,
I take it in.

The buzzing of the cicadas
has gone quiet for the year.

Can’t you see the trees
orange, red, yellow, green,

who planted them but God?
I’m not a religious person.

Can’t you see the purple and dead
on the ground, waiting

patiently to become soil
for God’s next planting?

Bird sings its repetitive call by the pond,
watery eyes stilled, reflection of a mirror of clouds.

Honeysuckle slashes through the stench of stagnant water.
Algae spreads on the clouds, a plague of green on fluffy white,
pocked by pink bog lilies.

A carp’s flittering body beneath
and above my reflection —
slides quickly away, leaving only a sunken
shadow of me.

I am taking this moment to mourn.

How often does one see a bird so closely
dipping up and down in a water dish,
fly closely to the ground. I want to scream
go up, go higher, take advantage
of your wings — I don’t know.

Maybe, “Move your sweet buttercup eyes
toward the scorching light.

Like the crabapple roots stretch, straining to wrap themselves
around earthworms, underground,
chasing a spiraling and empty path, but go higher. Go up”

Snails wriggle along lavender stems —
hunting for a sweet sip in the tiny purple cups —

in this moment I’ve taken to mourn.