Body of water near mountain under gray sky at golden hour


We travel long distances
after we die. Alive,
we grew roots in the place

where our seeds sprouted.
When still green-maned,
we inhaled carbon dioxide,

exhaled oxygen for breathing
beings. After, we shed
our photosynthetic garb,

to travel with just trunk,
branches and main roots,
board a current, a tide.

After a life vertical, we discover
horizontal; after holding onto soil
and holding it in place,

we turn into wanderers,
embrace cobalt, teal,
the moon. Waves sculpt us,

the sun bleaches us.
Water-borne, we raft
birds, fish, aquatic species.

Oceanic forces carry us—
storm-dependent, tide-reliant
voyagers—deposit us ashore.

We shelter salamanders,
snowy plovers and other
nesters, trap silt and seeds,

help sea rocket, sand verbena,
dune tansy take root,
tend life where we lie.


Poem by Simona Carini

Born in Perugia, Italy, a graduate of the Catholic University of the Sacred Heart (Milan, Italy) and of Mills College (Oakland, CA), Simona Carini writes nonfiction and poetry and has been published in various venues, in print and online. She lives in Northern California with her husband and works as an academic researcher in Medical Information Science. Her website is https://simonacarini.com