Tuesday, May 5, 2020
Singing Our Shared Strange Song
Love came. Pine trees tower over low-rolling acres where in Emily Dickinson's day were sheep. The miles go on and going on goes on. I don't argue I'm whole, don't say I'm not broken. In 1971 or 2 my heart opened unto a forest witch who filled the bloody meat with a dream of chickadees in the mind of black bear. Stones rolled down hills in a dense fog that later would remind me of the false confidence of men. Up to my knees in the charred ruins of their world, I decline to invent a new prayer. Berries grow in the hollows, sunlight makes me sleepy. How much hungrier could I be then now, dreaming you on all fours, both of us singing our shared strange song to the stars.