In Gravity’s Eye
A collection of observations and feelings, all tied together by nature.
Forest Haiku I - The Start Moss grows on, slowly Covering the sycamore. It is skin on bone. Part I - The Bee The lines were set by god and still they linger. They lay parallel, then bending, forming the translucent sheet, becoming wings with veins converging, then just as suddenly refusing to meet. There is peace in knowing, seeing only one responsibility: hold on. I’m guided by chance and have held so many hands. For just a moment, I held on to yours, and with it latent life comes forward. In my palm I had kept it, even just for a second. Movement has shown that our paths were beholden to the lines of the Sticky, Sweet, in-between Golden. Part II - The Flower The earth on my soles runs deep. Even if i wanted to, I cannot leave. I cannot be with time as I cannot be in motion. I rely completely on the force behind ocean, the wind is my dancing. And you dance in the wind, water of the wind, wind that carries the next generation, carrier of time eventually you have to move by. When you leave, because I know you must just like all else comes then does, let go of my hand a piece of me with you. And as you kiss others, you kiss me, too. The Old Guitarist The man’s neck bends down to the Ground where he’s planted, Stringed instrument slanted, He could be wilting, but on his side it can’t be seen. But he leans, Softly to his right, My left, My right his left, His left my right, Maybe we are birds of a feather, Maybe we are taut like a knot, tight, His aching posture reminds me of being together, His body looks cold but Something in this gesture swarms, makes me remember. Stare Feathering flare, Fiery ochre-tinted fauna. A gate holds the birds in place, as We so often see, like a bird in a Cage. But you, You are very different. Your gaze, Piercing like the roar of something distant. Burning frame, singeing skin, A stare to call out your name, Something to speak of the situation. Forest Haiku II - The Middle Wind moves swiftly to Shift the green, the flower bed, This is a romance. (rainbow) Fragments They look like glass, sharp pieces of a once-whole form, waiting for nothing in particular. But it happens to make contact with the sole of my foot. And crimson comes creeping, beading, weeping, from the wound this tiny shard created. Lodged in a soft spot, tiny shard makes itself at home. End Soiled in the car Petal, rooting, from The in-between hatched fibers and seat-belt metal, Gain the ability to see, Really see. Strife comes to a curtain close, A green slumber, Ivy on the sun-roof, Ricochet off the ranch-top. No more Sickly sweet brain seed like Shirley temple, maraschino cherry, Hard sucker jolly-rancher candy, Anything “grape” flavored. All keeps turning Like yarn fresh from the Allure of the eternal spinning wheel. A rest, Quick rest. Maybe one day we can Be blind All over again. Soma, my guitar The raw embraced by bark Round and pale Soma formed and was set free Curved and hollow Sugar cookies Fresh, warm, and well made by Singer at the Holler still raw in the center. I press down firmly till my fingers bruise and patterns emerge from the ring. And she rings my favorite song rings, I can’t say no to her, so I sing along she can harmonize with me in tremulous breaths quiet and subtle. Or in roars. Or in melodic patterns of pinprick lights in the darkness of my room, becoming the darkness of sky, because our city is light polluted anyway. Oaky fragrance lets me breathe, really breathe, as my bones sway to the numbers of a melody. My bones find the shape of a melody. She holds the patterns and speaks them into existence. Soma is godly. She speaks the language of lines that I love so much; she makes me feel like a mathematical mess that I can love so much. Forest Haiku III - The End Between the birches Teeming with life, silently, Strike and throw the match.
This work emerged throughout the poetry unit in my Advanced Creative Writing class. Every day, my teacher would have us answer a journal prompt in poetry form. I often found myself writing my responses about nature. Over months, my voice emerged, themes recurring. My poetry took on a life of its own, in a way. The same voice went through many forms; some were new to me as a writer.
Maya Cruz is a New York City born and raised daughter, sister, and student. She has a burning passion for the arts and the overlap they have with the natural world. Writing especially has helped her evolve her perspective, which she hopes to continue sharing.