The Giving

November 3, 2017

Walk through woodlands,          

dried pine droppings and moss giving          

beneath your feet. Tree roots,          

 

their underground thoughts rising          

in you, toes dipping into the fern-pool          

of a swamp earth; peat, anthracite,          

 

the mulch of other lives. Wherever you touch bark,          

you overflow, rough ridges and the soft branch     

tissue of lichens. You reach into earth shadows,     

 

slide darkness through your fingers; the woods

come closer, lift you out of your feet

into blotted leaf rhythms and beech sounds;

     

you, a light chestnut splash on the earth, a space

for eavesdropping, nothing but the moment

to go by. Time gathers in hollow trees,

 

you hatch into memory, move through it like a moonslide

through water. Beneath the spine of a broad leafed fern,

you slip into the root of knowledge,

 

follow the damp soil-song; stem-shape, leaf-form, tuber-curl;

over the edge into the continuance of all,

beyond every separate and singular thing.

 

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