Some days I want to become one with the forest.
Not disappear more like dissolve into something more useful.
Become the dark soil packed beneath the needles,
the coolness beneath moss,
the quiet place where fallen things are allowed to rest without explanation.
I am tired of being held together by muscle and memory.
Tired of carrying all of this like a bucket of stones.
Let there be space for it, for the long quiet breaking down of things.
I imagine the earth slowly taking me in,
Let rain work through me,
Let beetles and roots make use of what remains.
Let the creek pull thin ribbons of sorrow from my bones and carry them somewhere even mountains forget.
Until I am no longer separate from fern, from rot, from raven feather and river rock.
Until I am only this: something once wounded, now quiet, beneath the breathing earth.