Wandering questions before a wooded labyrinth
Whisper, asking for a grand theory
A cannon filled with run on unpunctuated sentences
And questions unanswerable.
Yet, those barely audible whispers!
For the life of me
I couldn’t tell you who or what they said.
But that’s the sounds of trees for you. Supercilious, taller in unison without harmony
Singing together then humming as a bee swarm choir.
Orchestrating an opera of my delicate sensibilities,
Dramatic, broken crystal by the secret octave of deception.
Blindly sliding through a wooded curtain
Where roads disappear.
We’re led nowhere by maps on the night’s inky sky.
Long unbroken lines of highway rose with voices
Of ash and elm along dashes of 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 – how perceptive the parents of nature?
Seeing the horror films on the backdrops of snow caps
Screaming at mouth of the forest.
At its fang – the sharp firs shredded my skin.
With a swipe of a long arm the burly beasts took me whole.
Right down the throat of the past.
Disgusted by my taste I’m spit out
Tumbling beside the lines (as anyone’s seen in a dream )
Imagining the inconsequential creation of myself
Taped up from fragments of past particles
Pieces of who I wanted me to see and warning what you may notice:
In mirrors I’d become larger than I appear.
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
Dropping off cold, stabbing the porch
As only water can – cold for an instant and gone
Alive for no reason.
In my mind I rename myself something simple, biblical: Ruth or Rebecca.
Shape my name as long as the Mississippi or
Cut it 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And a parents’ outdated tastes yet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 has forgiving myself given gratitude a new name? Grace drowns in the rain. The storms, the lightening ahead, and the heavens applaud my truths in thunder. Children learn to count: one one thousand, two one thousand. Time to find safety in miles, time to find shelter from the storms? While wind shakes my bones like wintered leafless branches, I tremble from deep inside my trunk, inside of me.