By: Kelsey McNeil
Change
Emerald spiral of spring
cracking earth,
your bloom unwinds
a weighted fan
of delicate extension
and lace filtered light,
feeding the understory
the pulse of growth
drinking,
absorbing,
dancing beneath
the stretch of sun
the tilt of cool
and length of night,
decomposing
russet frays amidst
resilient skin
does it grieve you
to lean
toward arid earth?
giving way
to the whisper
of soil,
come.
A Mother's Hands
bless the hands that slice the apples
the hands that make magic of bread and meat
bless the hands that grip the oar
the hands that tie to iron cleat
bless the hands that till the soil
the hands that cut the paper crafts
bless the hands that rock the baby and, mercy—
the hands that can’t
the hands that tend to broken skin
and broken hearts
and broken glass
the hands that sew the worn-out knees
bless, bless these hands
the hands that hold another’s shape
the hands that fold the clothes
bless the hands for holding firm
the hands for letting go
Born and raised in Alaska, Kelsey McNeil attributes much of her creative inspiration from theexpansive landscapes and tight-knit communities of this great state. Never farther than a few steps from the ocean, she spent her childhood beneath the Tongass National Forest’s vast canopy of coastal evergreens. Today she spends 5 months out of the year piloting tour vessels throughout the glacially carved waterways near her hometown of Ketchikan, Alaska. When she’s not on the water she enjoys traveling, taking part in community events, and raising her two 5th generation Alaskan daughters in the same wild landscape that she grew up loving.
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