To locate in the mind
Is an answer grasped;
A port, a lighthouse.
The green leaves go out of focus
Moving as a shining organism
Through the open window
That is neither clean nor proper.
The wind is a bunch of plastic bags
Rippling and crinkling
It is hot on the eyes and
Perfect in that.
Slide down on the ground
To think of that too, the dirt
On the skin cells. When rubbed off,
Cool and damp residue lingers
Like dirty feet on shores--
Just don’t wear shoes.
Just don’t get up and the
Sky is the right thing to look at:
Not a concave case or a lens or a reflection.
It may be cloudy or more gray
Than blue, but it is completely blank,
The closest to easy meditation,
To half-cocked Center, to some Buddha
Or whoever. To look is a neck elongated
A spine angled and the skin follows,
And maybe the mouth is open. It is
That is the production.
Chelsea Grinstead is not concerned with where she ends up. God is her bread and butter. She graduated from University of Florida with a bachelor’s in journalism. She loves sunshine, reading, writing, yoga, and politics. She wants to go back to UF or maybe travel. She would love to be a missionary working in the developing world—but she wouldn’t mind being on bestseller lists either. To her, each day is a gift and an opportunity to be spiritual, being in oneness with God and truly connecting with people on that level. Poetry is how her mind works and is a natural way she expresses herself. When she reads others’ poetry, the pain or sorrow inside her is translated to endless beauty. Poetry is her land.