Diorama 1871 (acreage on fire)

Catie Rosemurgy


Never mind the fire, the new leaves in spring always seemed dangerous to me. A shade of green that wants to be yellow. 

You open the door one morning and find the whole world ready to become something else. You drink your coffee and watch it happen. 

The irony is we moved here because we'd be surrounded by water. When the lake wasn't frozen, ships could bring us everything we'd need. 

Plus, the melting in spring is so personal, your eyes buried like bulbs in your head. Plus, the mornings here come in bunches. The mornings here have a root system. The evenings have a flat, cool surface like a leaf. The quietness here is the quietness of being near lake water. The self here is a self that forms a basin. Good news: the birch tree lasted through the winter, and so did I by watching it. To the people who lived here before, I say, if what was yours wasn't more truly mine, all this smoldering wouldn't mean so much to me. 

When I believed I was dying, all I wanted was the metaphor of this grass against my face. Green, flattened, unimportant weeds I can't name. I recognize when I'm standing on top of my own ugliness. 

Purple flowers and white saplings rise out of a silver pool. It's not a tray. I'm not exactly being served. What does it mean to steal and not feel you are stealing? A spring morning.