Rhiannon,
quick nymph,
tell me a story;
teach me to
speak to the
trees.
Magic may be a
secret, gone
for the telling
but language,
she needs to breathe.

Do the beeches creak
or grumble? I’m sure
the pines are rustling
whisperers and the willow,
old weeper,
is sighing
near the oak
who admits in a moan
that times they’re
always a-changing
the sapling soon
will be grown.

Rhiannon,
sweet girl,
I’ll join you
near the babbling
river, that fool
together we’ll sing
to the ancients
within us
their knowledge
will pool. In
time our ankles
will lengthen
earth-hungry, plunge
into the ground, our
bodies
amber and gleaming
will reach
bark-clothed, sky-bound.

Rhiannon,
dear rowan,
do you remember
all that we
used to be?
Boughs tangled, roots
curled together
weave our tale
in the language of
trees.

I am equal parts
woman and
wilderness
an animal in
100% cotton
steeped in some
ancient anger
old as man
I ache for dirt
earth-eager
for scent of pine
and drum of
blood-drive
mosquitos
watch me bare
my teeth
take bites of
years left
till they drip
from my gums

I pray to a god
called dynamism.
The moon, she keeps
my confessions—
though inconsistently
through the month—
along side the other
bodies. I
wonder if their
menstrual path
is painful or if,
like breathing,
they work to notice
the cycles. Perhaps
space moves
around them like
seasons, stars blooming
and fading,
tiny pinprick
maple leaves
in clusters, milky
trees.
All I know is that
everything changes
something it once
was, will
be again, and I
too am allowed
to have phases,
build up to finish
and fall
begin

I.

No one knows
light
like the moon
though she has none
of her own. She
bathes in it
morning after
mourning
a soak of soft
water colors
petals bleeding on
sky, gifts from a
long-distance
lover she will never
meet for at the
birth of each day
the moon waves
goodbye. And at
dusk she repeats,
strophic, unending,
stolen
sun-songs.

II.

Born out of the
restless fog
of daydreams
and moonbeams
it manifests slowly:
backwards,
inside out,
materializing
from mist and
breath and
thought.
This song is
visible, a
plush glow like
velvet, rabbit fur
soft and gentler than
a lover’s
touch.

III.

Here there is something
old
old and quiet
sleeping
in peaceful
day, light
both it’s cocoon
and nectar
dripping
steadfast from
golden leaves.

Death
is a tale
penned by
voices innumerable
and the cosmos
are best captured
in minimalist
strokes.

Clouds loiter outside
stained-glass
equally pigment and
dust
blurring pews strewn
with gaping song books,
silent mouths amid
sprouts of green.
Forgotten cathedral,
await the breach of
sun, her voice a
horn, pleading
to paint stone
tiles in shades
of biblical stories.
Your longing
echoes, an
ache in
under-rhythms
felt across time
by those who
reach.