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).