Purple flowers are growing through my back door
between the cracks of what should close.
I slipped and fell downward on the slope tailbone cracked but continued anyway,
needing to see what was further below.
Stupid of me, I only had that small piece of toast for breakfast
perspiring, fuzzy, continue the descent,
Then I landed.
I needed this dark day fog settling, in the
damp, gray the rain misting and then
clumping down fat upon my cheek. I couldn’t breathe
with so much light in the air.
Now I am settled again mossy and grounded
Encumbered by the surrounding woods, looking up at those leaves dancing
branches in the sky
pitter pats of what is sobbing from otherworlds above.
I hadn’t written poetry for a time
Why was this? Books pages are
I killed the battery of my melodies
Oh well, mud squishing, running between my fingers instead,
And now those dead leaves cling upon the
black knee of my pants.
Snake tails slithering through the grass–
I named them once, I think...
I feel safe wandering here, in being, lostness in the
What a change that is from hypervigilanced requirements
demands, fatiguing from before.
A woodpecker nails at that tree from above.
This dark still pond, black beneath hanging branches that
tickle and descend at the waters edge.
Down I am immersed into the wet gravity pulling
beneath the unconscious undertows,
taking me nearer to the beginning of what was supposed to be.
Primordial eyes looking back at me–
You are down here, too.
The water osmosing in and out of my open mouth,
And somewhere, a lark sang above.