by Nina Pick
These poplars, in the fog of a gold morning, are their own.
They are not mine to sculpt in my imagining.
The grow where they will, and in precisely
the form of their own choosing.
Even without me, they are.
The world exists entirely in and for itself.
And yet, without my presence to it, would it not die, just a little?
Not entirely, the way I would die without it,
but slightly, as if skipping a heartbeat, or a breath.
Nina Pick is author of two chapbooks: Leaving the Lecture on Dance and À Luz. The recipient of a 2016 Mesa Refuge Poetry Fellowship, her work has appeared in numerous ecology and literary journals and in various anthologies. She is a founding editor of the Inverness Almanac and Mount Vision Press, the lead editor of The New Farmer’s Almanac, an ordained Jewish priestess with a committed Zen practice, and an oral history fellow with the Yiddish Book Center.