How can I sum up in words the way you make me feel How can I adequately convey the way I let you stroke the paintbrush across the expressions on my face adding layers and years to this once simple sketch You are what allows others to interpret this complicated sculpture in the way of their liking You’ve hidden my words in the dark corners of my own mind and filled the empty space with your tongue You’ve hidden virtue in the places I am now too afraid to enter
As you imitate the willow leaves with your hands You then steal my breath too My heartbeat then seems to resemble that of the Quaking Aspens— not sure if the leaves are applauding or trying to scare you away
As Spring rolls back around and the soil becomes fertile again my youth will be renewed
I will then pick peel scratch and tear at the scabs you have created
Early in the morning my mom sings to me Lorelei, the Irish folk lullaby she used to sing–– on down the line from my Irish-Catholic, 33rd and 3rd grandmother, now living free and dying in the granite state New Hampshire–– who sang to women and their divinity and powers teaching them spells of nurturing and baby-bearing and growing life. She eats oatmeal early in the morning.
The paper birch is home to chaga mushrooms, if I remember correctly. Interconnected communities that thrive within the ever sacred forest. Secret societies of life and fruit and system and equity. The mushrooms grow from ruin and death to create medicine, food, poison. The BAIN OF ANYTHING. Why bain? Why so vain? How come I hadn’t known the forest’s majesty? I am so in love! SO IN LOVE! Ferns of moisture. Turkey tail: a shag carpet on logs. The reishi calls to us! A sign? The puffball that we couldn’t find is watching us. Consciousness is existence.