On the dirt road to Hermitage Pointe, trees arch over the lane to touch each other. Soon the deerflies will make walking murderous. As a child I ran away from home down this road and hid in the arms of a massive oak. I heard them calling my name but felt nothing for their search. Summer still had its sheen and the ruffled bark cut into my long, chalky legs. I'm not sure I can outrun the years of not being known. Driving down that road today I can see the path to that tree and remember everything. Such hallowed ground keeps asking: do you forgive?
On certain June mornings when the night has been sharply cooler and sunlight hits the tree bark just so, moisture lifts off the trunk as steam. Science as magic.
Small daisies growing at the trailhead brushed the palms of my hands, dancing a little. The sense of having certain plants and birds and animals sewn together in a pattern of attention never quite leaves me. Our wooded hike hides gray skies; so many hours this spring are gray hours. My blooms are staying tightly bound — my skin significantly less illustrated.
sun – freckles – blooms
There is this river that flows in and through and around me. I can drink from it and cool my ankles in it and sit beside it in a trance. But loving this river makes me a liar because I cannot tell anyone how it makes me feel. I can share the river with everyone and anyone and yet, it is my river. Water as teacher. Swallowing as dream. Tell no one the nothing that I mean.