What is Precious By Nancy Hom

A hardness is forming that I don’t want

inside me. There must be some bit of hope

to keep what is precious close to my heart,

to be taken and polished like a golden treasure.

Tenderly caressed. Carefully tended.

I cannot live otherwise.

When I tell myself the earth is dying,

the fear comes back. I scramble

for evidence of her breathing –

a patch of blue sky, a fresh flower,

the coolness of a mountain stream.

Even shit from a pigeon splattered on my hair

tells me there are birds still flying.

As long as they do, my spirit soars with them.

I run down the beach, feel the crisp moistness

between my toes, see the glee of sandpipers

dancing with the tide. I focus on these details,

my eyes catching every glint of sunlight on the sand

with one-pointed concentration.

That she may not live never crossed our minds.

Now we sharpen our vigilance,

watchful of what we keep and discard.

If only we could live like the days when

the earth was goddess and the ocean was mother,

and no one boasted of owning “the deepest well ever drilled.”

Then the sea life may one day return.

I long to be the dream of a hummingbird.

That I may wake to flit freely among the flowers.

But our fate is cut much deeper than that.

No lush forests and unshaved mountains.

No clear streams and glacial peaks.

How could I have missed

this sudden snap to attention,

carelessly picking berries on the side of the road?

As if berries will always be there, ripe and juicy;

as if trees will always give shade

without us paying mind to their care.

A life is far more dear to us when it is dying.

We tiptoe into the room for fear of disturbing,

hoping a miracle will come to save her

and we can start anew,

with hands in grateful prayer.