She cried when they walked on the moon
she was inconsolable
She will never be that young again
never so full of life
as that summer of 1969
when two men scrabbled over rocks and dust
and looked back at the planet they
came from, a small blue oval
graffitied by white
hanging in the blackness.
She cried when they cut down the trees
and ripped up the soil in British Columbia
for her new home. A new home out of the forest
she had not thought of the displacement of the forest.
Of souls rooted in roots
of eagles in nests looking with piercing vision
into the heart of a human woman.
The rain fell and mud flowed
like Woodstock, which she missed,
and instead wrote about in
the song more real to most that the event.
Events and love.
She thinks about these things,
how synonymous they are.
For love is an event in the reaching brain
each ticking second observed and archived
stored in a cloud of obsessive neurons
and brought to the forefront by hormones,
eventualities and cadences.
It mystifies and animates, stirs oxygenated blood,
pours out of pores; it tickles and horrifies.
She cried about the smile he gave her when
he said goodbye, whichever he he was.
She cried about the lonely voices coming
across a quarter million miles, decoded
here on Earth.
“In a highway service station
Over the month of June
Was a photograph of the earth
Taken coming back from the moon
And you couldn’t see a city
On that marbled bowling ball
Or a forest or a highway
Or me here least of all”
-Joni Mitchell, Refuge of the Roads, from Hejira – 1976