Robyn Art

Because Light Itself is a Nutrient

Because light itself is a nutrient she's out
each day at noon,
trekking from the overpass
to the poke of stringy elms.
The bloom cannot be salvaged,

nor the roar of progress stopped.
How many times
she has pulled to the shoulder,
transmission shot to hell.
Been the name de plume,

           the one in blue,

scribe at the shotgun wedding.
Had she the words she'd tell a daughter,
Go in fear of the nine-to-five.
Be familiar with love and cruelty
and apt to confuse the two,

           and always,

take pains to maintain the body's
delicate balance of water.
Because distance cannot be measured
between this world and the next
from some blighted holler the dead

call out, blotto with childbed fever.
She will measure the nearing hour
by the tulips' genuflection toward night
and the traffic slowed on the off-ramp,
potholes glutted with rain.

Now is when she'd tell her girl, Fall far,

stumble freely. 

Fashion a staunch and unswerving hunger
for the integrated life.
And should the spate of disbelievers
sound their ballyhoos of doubt
stay low, 
strike early,
take the long way home.