After nearly a month in Asheville–the many tromps through the woods, the heavy late day rains, reading nearly a book a day, writing new poems (!), and meeting all of these wonderful new friends (and even a little salsa dancing thrown in for good measure)–if I were to get a single poem tattooed on my body, this one by Ross Gay would be a strong contender:
If you find yourself half naked
and barefoot in the frosty grass, hearing,
again, the earth’s great, sonorous moan that says
you are the air of the now and gone, that says
all you love will turn to dust,
and will meet you there, do not
raise your fist. Do not raise
your small voice against it. And do not
take cover. Instead, curl your toes
into the grass, watch the cloud
ascending from your lips. Walk
through the garden’s dormant splendor.
Say only, thank you.