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| Sunflower and friend . . . in France |
the wind blew and
the branches with their clusters
of wet leaves
slapped my face . . .
rubbing their hairy undersides,
wet with fallen rain,
along my cheeks . .
stemming my voice with
dirty green;
I sensed annoyance
in their language . ..
the dripping of the woods . .
was hollow
as rivers melted into the mosses
and rotten logs . .
every child of the undergrowth
slithered and chirped . .
winged icons fluttered where branches bent
as landing stages . ..
and the shadows so dark and heavy,
like fanged mouths of caves snarling. . .
gnarled roots crawled up through the loam
laying traps through this old avenue . . .
slicked with mud
drooling with the congealing blood of the wilderness . . .
plastering my soles with wild lava
cold and tempered . . slippery with birth . .
I flew through these woods . .
my grief so unavenged,
yet like a greasy arrow
straight through my heart
branding its way through those barrens . . .
a frail vine
lifting boulders
succoring me with its fruits . . .
I dreamed, as I ran,
of voices calling . .. barren trees
and spirits of the ancients . .
a balm of honey . . . golden in purity,
a shelter in the storm,
a twinkle of laughter;
my steps take me to the top of the hill,
the heights above the forest . .
a rainbow's end from the city;
the storm having danced away,
finds a home across the mountains
and I find the stars blooming
across a velvety sky . .
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Some music for your enjoyment:
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