The wild, green hand,
stretching its pine thistle palms out to you,
and curling its fingers closed;
to come look.
The gentle daisies with the sunlight
in their eyes,
rustling their bodies across a deer trail;
and from here,
you can feel them shake and flicker
the flies off their skins.
These are your brothers;
the bear track beyond the birch trees,
the squiggly snooting pig tails by the barn.
These are your sisters,
the aspens yawning in the wind,
the bullfrogs bowing their voices back
to the moon, barber-shopping
their song across the lily pads.
What a waste this wonder would be
if we weren’t one circle,
one unending round.
By Schuyler Peck
Born of college-ruled notebooks and the smell of lemon grass, Schuyler Peck was raised in New Jersey, but she’ll never tell you that. Instead, she’ll tell you there are pieces of her everywhere; planted in trees and shipped off to the moon. Her poetry, however, can be found in her book, A Field of Blooming Bruises, Words Dance Publications, Literary Sexts V. 2, Rising Phoenix Review, JuxtaProse Magazine, and schuylerpeck.tumblr.com