The Season

when the smell of the oven holds up the walls
wet leaves tape sky to earth
I crawl inside music
its afghan knit
fringes to cover the backs of my hands.
I go underground
past the roots
the fertile soil
the wellsprings to
where rock sweats
but stays bound.
You think it’s easy
to choose health.
Yoga, sleep, a crisp afternoon run.
A matter of discipline.
A bit of prioritizing.
It should be easy
I can see that
with her smile from those footie pajamas
his Love you, mama.
Think of all the good things in your life, mama.
You could teach for me, mama—
I would pay you
four dollars a week.
You want to be connected to nature.
I’m straining against Saturn.
When sun sinks each autumn
I go with it.
Love you, Mama.
Think good, Mama.
For me, Mama.
How can melancholy
be moldable
and not respond to that?