You Are Here: Poetry in the Natural World

by Ada Limon

let me remember you, let me remember what lay beneath your weather—your snow-born streams, your troubled foliage. guinep, worship, convenience, heel and toe. old dream, will either of us return to what we once were? to when?

I already won’t chase anybody For my food. But maybe I can still be romantic. Maybe I can still be romantic in spite Of my pride. Someone will notice. Up the sky, Not down the street. You can watch me while I watch you And the rest of the savanna From my aerial view. Lord, Let me get higher. Just one of me Is a parade.

And oh my God, are you as exhausted as I am from grieving the planet? Tell me what I’m supposed to say about the end of the world. Tell me how not to be hysterical every time I see what’s coming. Every time I see what’s here. Tell me how to accept that it didn’t have to be this way but that it is. Tell me how to accept this sun, this fire, this sky, this day. Don’t leave me here in these ashes. Tell me to go inside. Tell me not to stare at the sun. Tell me it’s OK to be alone. Tell me it’s OK to be scared. Tell me it’s OK to be grief stricken. Tell me not to give up. Tell me to stop thinking about that woman. Tell me there are things I can’t change. Tell me I have to live.

And then the day came, when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. — ANAIS NIN