“Sometimes it is what is beautiful that carries you,” said Weasel weakly from his bed. “Yes, it can carry you to the end. It is your relationship to what is beautiful, not the beautiful thing itself, that carries you,” said Grizzly Bear.
—Barry Lopez, Crow and Weasel
And so, after years of wanting to be river
and calendula, cottonwood and aspen,
larkspur and evergreen, at last the poet
longs to be herself—longs not to be
what is many petalled nor golden leafed,
not to be what merges with ocean,
what thrives in cold. Rather, she longs
to be the one who might uncover beauty
in the garbage dump, find splendor in the mess.
It is no small thing to want to be yourself.
Look, there she sits in the prison of her thoughts.
See her smile as the bars begin to bend,
watch her marvel as what she thought was a cage
becomes wings.