Chelsea McClellan
One Subjective Day
Another slow-paced walk.
The woods, the place we go
to yawn—catch up on air,
to hold each flower’s name
as loosely as the stalk,
to kiss what's nearly dead.
How delicate, the dead
that decorate our walk,
the almost-off-their-stalk,
the can’t-quite-let-it-go,
the Spring Beauties we named
and then forgot like air.
Spring, as Winter’s heir,
has heard the tales of death
too much. She wants her name
unhindered by such talk,
but don’t we all? We go
off-trail, and think we stalk
an extra day—we stalk
a squirrel, or the air
it’s made to walk. You go
on that air—and find you dead.
And hungry. Acres to walk.
No one calling your name.
At least you know one name:
for wild carrot, stalks
like ferny salad, walk
until they cloud the air,
white flowers nearly dead,
but the roots are ready to go.
You eat. It’s time to go.
But poison’s in its name,
and Hemlock wants you dead.
Armed with purpling stalks
but Queen Anne’s Lace’s air,
it seizes first: your walk.
Your walk, your talk, both go.
Your air expelled, your name.
The wavering stalk is dead.
Chelsea McClellan is a poet writing from a small homestead in Northwest Ohio. You can find her recent poetry at
THINK, Rattle, One Art 2025 Haiku Anthology, and
Native Fruit (Sheila-Na-Gig editions, 2024).