Author: Emilie Kvist

It is almost as if time stands still here- leaving only the wind and the birds to move.

My body itches, and because time stands still- I cannot.

The sun seems not to move either, it does not breathe, it does not sleep, it does not rest.

I cannot rest, because of it.

Endless hours mean endless days and endless possibilities for movement and ideas.

My feet call to move, and if there is no darkness, then there is no stopping.

I hike into the sunset at midnight to the cliffs where the seagulls nest in the rocks.

I am watched by the faces of the horses, seals, and gulls that wonder why I am also up.

I join them in their midnight awareness, as I sit on the rocks and watch the gulls fly.

I wish to be a gull that hides in the rocks or a seal that swims to the deep- but I am me, and I have legs.

The light does not leave as the sun goes down, but circles back.

As if the universe made a ball of rubber bounce off the horizon.

As I hike out through the sunrise,

rays of light touch my shoulders as I make my way towards bed.

Your hair is like straw my mother would say-

she said as if I was of earth and the earth grew from my roots.

She gathered the ends- bundling wild yellow straw in her hands.

I can trim it for you if you like.

When nurtured- it would grow and grow, and she would brush it away as it fell into my eyes, it looks tucked away from your face she would say.

Now as an adult, it breaks dead at the end, tired and broken.

Hold still, she would say to child me, as she trimmed it, brushing it back and collecting it up from the bathroom ground, off the linoleum she hated but would take years to replace.

Come let’s leave it out for the birds for their nests, our feet touching the grass as my straw flew away in the wind.

We are of grass and earth.