are there wordsfor this light –words for the waythese trunks twist crevicefor lichen and moss.is there a name for shadowsstrewn forest floorlike windfall petals, when i sit herereally here on this leaf litter floor,are there words for the forestthat rises and sways through me,plays me wood string resonantamong the trees. 16 April 2023
there is a cottageat the edgeof the woodsin it lives a womana woman a woman,more.it lives in womenthe cottageat the edgeof the woods. the herbs that hang from the raftersbunches of mpephu and nettleand tulsi, the roses that growa blood thorned tangleswoon sweet andspread on october cloths to dry,the bottled elder turnedby the light of…
it is not likewe can wait,burning as we dowith the long ache fordissolution of selfamong the choir of trees –barefeet crunchingin late summer leaves it is not likewe can wait,hem entangledin snag breath lichen twigsand thorn –to part ferns, soft grownknee high, to findthis slow undoingwhere the longing of bonesmeets rapturousthe long silence of trees.…
downbeyond where the slopedropsdeep into valleywhere the treeslivebeyond timeand each breath becomes a prayerto our unspoken godsthere, moss cushioned, will iwaitfor you downin the darkof the waterdeepamong shards of lightswimming the softing tide –thrum of riverquenching my skin,playing my bonesdeer fluteto the forest sky.there in the deepamong our shardsof light, will iwaitfor you unyieldingin the…
they are small streams nowthat cut these deep valleys –rock slip moist mosswhere light can hardly touchbut here shaftbeam drift lightthrough tall trees and airhung with water dropletsand spore,touching bracket or fern leafor foot. small streams nowthat roar with the raintumbling debris,hanging upriver grassin the trees with the floodline. small streams thatspeak gentle overrock shelvesstill…
in the quiet lightof mist morningbirdsong falls like rain condensationleaf gatheredand pouredfor the thirsty,the waiting,the listening – birdsong fallinglike rainfrom the trees.
it was my plan all along to lie down there among the twigs and fallen leaves, let the forest have me because there is something in my bones that does not know these days can’t taste the sunlight or feel vast oceans pulse in the night. three days now the snail has been sleeping on…
beyond the quiet of leaf drip as night rain gathers along veins deep grooved to spill from leaves new touched by the awakening day, beyond the calls of birds summoning the sun, beyond the noiseless sound of barefeet on damp paths in the morning, a tree waits rooted in the silence at the edge of…
in the quiet noise of night – under the slow turn of stars, the grassed hill dreams herself forest.
there is no following where this path might lead, no heedings of warnings or calls, there is only this earth soft worn between undergrowth, thorn snarled and aching with the beauty of small leaves that touch the light just out of reach. and when we break to this beauty, as break we must. let it…