Agnes Vojta
Grounding
Ten hours on the plane, six in the car.
I found myself unbalanced, felt my soul
had not kept pace, but limped and lagged behind.
In search of equilibrium, I went
out in the woods to walk in solitude;
my ears craved silence and my feet soft earth.
The mist rose from the pond. Sun dappled paths.
The lilies opened wide their orange throats
to drink the blazing fire of the sun.
I scooped up water from the spring and wet
my travel weary face, and then I knelt
and buried both my hands deep in the sand.
I touched the ground and knew I had come home.
The river, clear and wild and without age
was flowing through my heart and washed it green.
Grounding
Ten hours on the plane, six in the car.
I found myself unbalanced, felt my soul
had not kept pace, but limped and lagged behind.
In search of equilibrium, I went
out in the woods to walk in solitude;
my ears craved silence and my feet soft earth.
The mist rose from the pond. Sun dappled paths.
The lilies opened wide their orange throats
to drink the blazing fire of the sun.
I scooped up water from the spring and wet
my travel weary face, and then I knelt
and buried both my hands deep in the sand.
I touched the ground and knew I had come home.
The river, clear and wild and without age
was flowing through my heart and washed it green.
Agnes Vojta grew up in Germany and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where she teaches physics at Missouri S&T. She is the author of Porous Land (Spartan Press, 2019). Her poems recently appeared in As It Ought To Be Magazine, Former People, Gasconade Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, Trailer Park Quarterly, and elsewhere.