– Jose A. Alcantara
The grass is a roiling river of light
cascading down the mountain
among spruce, fir, and hemlock
the leaf blades reaching for the sun
at if it were a god and they saints.
I want to give myself like that.
To the sun, yes, but more so to my brothers
my sisters, to strange misfits and friends.
Yes, come closer. Let us walk into this
like we were a river roiling in light.
Clerestory Poetry Journal 