Going In, Without Words (Week Three)

Anne Dalke's picture

Comments

Barbara's picture

Angle changes view

I really love MVI 4249. I never saw the woods in this angle before!

Nan's picture

A Kind of Speech

Though we do not speak

the same language, I will try to speak

in your language.  We share an eon

of soft sibilants silenced

after you have gone.

Do you think you own us?

Clearcutters and clearfellers.

Canopy strippers.

Can you hear the crickets

sawing their bell song?

You of the pipeline and waste line.

Ground poisoners, sky belchers.

You of deafening racket.

Can you hear the waterfall trill of the wood thrush?

The geese are already leaving.

And the deer.

I will shred in their mouths

and go down the long chute.

You, Cutters, understand trash talk.

I can read your name on your garbage.

Where are you going?

What is your intent?

What power do you invoke over us?

The bear have gone into the hill.

I am here

sprouting green and speaking

to you but do you hear me?

You with the long shadow.

I have heard you before.

I have been waiting for you

with my green mouth open

and spreading in hot sun.

I drink light like water.

I sing of some ancient memory

ancient and sharp

like the winter wind

that will turn me

turn me toward the slippage

of my being. Will it tear me?

Goring ice draining my blood?

Or a slow hot burn turning me red?

I have heard your footsteps before

keeping me company

keeping me company

and I hold my breath

before you touch me.

Did you pray? Did you ask my permission

before you cut me?

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