Because accidents can happen in an empty room, we brought home lilies in small woven baskets and left them there while we climbed blue mountains, swam oceans and rivers without names. We wanted the room to stay the same, the core newer than the surface. The sun kept blinding and unblinding—we saw past the darkness to the flowers we left behind. If our birthright is being who we are, we have nothing more to say, we did what needed to be done, the baskets are our witness.
Cynthia Anderson lives in the Mojave Desert near Joshua Tree National Park. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals, and she is the author of nine poetry collections. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She co-edited the anthology A Bird Black As the Sun: California Poets on Crows & Ravens. www.cynthiaandersonpoet.com