The first half of our life is a big mistake,
a Jungian psychoanalyst intoned on a podcast,
reactive, not generative. I listened.
Every day we have to get up and ask ourselves:
Why am I here? In service to what? Otherwise
we remain in service to our subconscious patterns.
I pictured him a burly, bearded man, waking early
to record his revelatory dreams. Yet here I am,
emerging from another restless, menopausal night—
dreams fragmented, elusive—to hear the crows confront me
with their daybreak call: Who or what will I serve?
I pledge allegiance to the flag, I recited in childhood classrooms,
never considering what might be worthy of allegiance,
or what it entails. I pledge allegiance to the wild, I want to say,
wanting my life’s second half to be generative—
at least something other than a big mistake.
Where to begin with the infinite wild? Begin here:
one pollinator garden, one young native tree.
Serviceberry, rising to greet the June day,
your tiny berries soon to ripen, whom do you serve?
