Wandering questions before a wooded labyrinth
Whisper, asking for a grand theory
A cannon filled with run on unpunctuated sentences
And questions unanswerable,
Heard as whispers in the wind, barely audible!
For the life of me
I couldn’t tell you who said what
or what they said.
But that’s the sounds of trees for you:
Supercilious, taller, singing together, yet without a conductor in sight.
Reeds and wind instruments. Cellos and flutes. The rarest contraltos
Singing together in harmony then humming as a bee swarm choir.
Conducting an opera of my delicate sensibilities,
Dramatic, cracked crystal by the secretive octave of deception.
We moles blindly sliding through a wooded curtain
Where roads we won’t see disappear into the air.
Led nowhere by maps on the night’s inky sky, the leggy lustrousness of unlit highways rose with those low tones –
Singing ash and elm boarded up covered bridges on the broken side dirt roads.
Cold ice baby blue bodies of water
Surrounded by brown paper mountains, all
Legendary but-meaningless without keys to open
Our car doors. Nature’s perceptive parents just know when to leave.
Seeing the horror films on the backdrops of snow caps
We’re screaming in terror at mouth of the forest.
Opening wide its fangs showing the sharp firs
Shredding my skin on my way down and a swipe of a long branch,
Bark brown burly beasts ate me whole, swallowing me back in the throat of the past.
Disgusted by my taste I’m spit out and disappointed
Tumbling in the blackness, the inconsequential creation of myself
Pieces of who I wanted me to see and warning what you may notice:
In mirrors I’d become larger than I appeared.
This moment – now – burnt by fire
Burnt up and afraid time knocks down our front door.
Standing there looking at us it sends up red flares
Hot and melting pin-sharp icicles from the eaves
Coldly stabbing as only water can – cold for an instant and gone,
Alive without reason. I rename myself something simple, biblical: Ruth or Rebecca.
Snake my name in the sands as long as the Mississippi or short as the Nile.
Name me Superior or after another lake
Yet besides water tricking the ground into moving away afraid lakes
Simply wait for the rain.
But in my digression
I must admit my remission…
Bullies can spit me out
Like grizzle from a
Buzzards beak for they’ve
A taste for carcasses
And a parents’ outdated tastes yet
Salivate for the stench of the dead.
Is life that much better now? Naming myself with forgiveness and gratitude: Grace drowns in the rain. While wind shakes my bones in the winter storms’ leafless branches, I tremble from deep inside my trunk, inside of me.