I lie in bed waiting for morning
in the nadir of winter.
I remember I forgot
to destroy the hornets’ nest
and throw aside the warmth
to head barefoot into the crisp cold.
The hornets appear dead
except for white sacs
attached to their abdomens,
as if at any moment
one would become ten
a hundred become a thousand
a million become a billion.
I lie beneath the nest
assuming I rest on frozen leaves
— the way they sparkle in moonlight —
but the leaves are hornets
and my body’s weight and warmth
cause them to squirm.
I am afraid they will sting me
and I will die feeling nothing.
The more they stir
the more I become numb.
Out in the street the roar of a tsunami.
I force my neck to bend and witness
a majestic wave like a Japanese painting
— cobalt blue with tufts of titanium white —
swallow stars, the moon, electrical poles, homes.
I scream Tsunami coming!
My tight fists pummel neighbors’ doors.
A Tsunami! A Tsunami!
But they cannot feel the water
climbing up their calves.
I see him come towards me
but say nothing
for he hears my thoughts.
We run too slowly for the stairs,
our bodies like lead,
but eventually find dry ground.
We watch children running
up another set of stairs
that becomes a cliff
that becomes glass
shattering the children
who become confetti
flowing down the river
that was once a street.
Sound rolls on itself
and everything is flat again,
everywhere the softest dirt.
He takes off his shoes
and we curl our toes
and cannot help but kiss.
We see Mother Nature.
She is all sensation
and does not have eyes.
She is like Indra in the sky,
although instead of stars
infinite teats.
She is covered with life
crawling and sucking
and I think it is good she cannot see
because she might push them away.
When Buddhist priests sew their robes
large panels like fields of rice
lose their distinctness blending
into one precious garment.
Thich Nhat Hanh said,
The Earth will be safe
when we feel safe in ourselves.
First start with poetry
and fold the parts into one Self
like a sublimation,
a solid turning into air.