If I can’t sleep, I can’t write.
If I can’t ease my son’s pain, I can’t sleep.
If I hadn’t made love with my husband,
I wouldn’t have given birth.
If I hadn’t given birth, our son wouldn’t be in pain.
If I hadn’t been born among towering maples,
I wouldn’t have tried to imitate growing things.
If I hadn’t trusted, I wouldn’t be so hurt by humans,
who aren’t the same as trees, for when we suffer,
we want the world to sufer with us.
If I wasn’t in pain, or full of joy, I couldn’t write.
If I can’t write, I can’t sleep.
~ from Swimming With A Hundred Year Old Snapping Turtle
(Red Dragonfly Press, 2008)
