After the Pastoral

Late in the spring, an early spring no less,
that drank all of its winter water and began
looking dry in the ditches. The ducks groom
in gulch ponds. On the banks where once
spilled a waterfall, rock bodies shoulder
a cascade of green, dressed in a rosemary
of mosses and dandelion leaves. In a few
years we’ll say: this is how the grove grew
irises. When the spring melt could not
muster any more depth and the sun bleached
the leaves, cracked the skin, left the eye’s iris
to memorize color as muscle memory.
In fullness, we too will lay down and grow
into the grasses. Tall as the trees to our west,
and trembling.

Sasha Pickering is an emerging writer based in Mi'kma'ki (Nova Scotia) where she lives and studies by the ocean.

Published January 15 2024