Walking in the Forest

Walking in the forest,

I tore my shoes off, coat off, past off,

irises merge into aquamarine fish

swimming from eyes to chest:

now a nest of soft dew between the cracks

of tree barks,

fingers edging on backs of

beautifully bumping roots.

Hands turning,

squirming,

into fledgling pepper green moths.

Naked salt-skin opens up like

undersides of leaves.

 

And the trees

whispered me these things:

“We’re wise, and old, yet still sons of this earth,

you too have been birthed

from this mother.

This is your womb, just like any other.”

I listened to them hum, these

old folksongs delivered by wind, like drums,

each word, a mellifluous golden heart

lulled by the her petrichor sweet pitch.

My footsteps followed to the beat,

attenuated tones of riverbeds and creeks:

I listened and listened like a child.

 

Walking in the forest,

she pecks me on my cheeks with sun,

lathers me in the buttery buzzing sounds of bees,

blankets and bandages my toes with primrose.

I thank her in profusion,

she shakes her head in confusion,

poses before me, and says,

“Welcome back.”

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