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.”
Whimsical Thread 