The morning air was cold in the forest.
Sweeping black wisps in a microscope lens, her eyelashes outlined an illuminated tapestry reflected back. Sunlight brushed them, the feathery frame changed; from crows taken flight to a gilded insect’s wing. Icy fingers slowly opened the tubes, aquamarine humming with rusty umber. Dawn suddenly unfolded -- a cacophony of colors flowed and collided in dance, like fluids mixing. Interconnected here nor there, alive and dead. Our destinies are prewritten revelations echoed behind a closed door. Fallen asleep, the earth turned. Waiting for wings, to remember or not. Flutes floated in the forest.
Late autumn leaves muddled under footprints as she trailed over dew-beaded clovers, eager for warmth. The canvas stretched and yawned across pillowy mosses, crawling into pastel blue and pink lichens. Rich with abundance, ancient fossils petrified in phthalo and quinacridone. Colors swam like waterfalls in the hum. Water wrapped rounded stones like a gift, carrying the rains to ease the path. Tied root ladders of grandmother trees spoke quietly and whispered secrets.
She wondered who she would love, for how long. Back then, soon. Never at all. All at once. The cells and molecules danced in the sun, exuberant, entirely animate within her. Around her. They all called her name. Her limbs ached with longing and belonging.
The birds fell silent. The whooshing water and gentle wind lulled.
Filaments of starlight filtered through the last tails of fog. The forest was overflowing with love. Colors moved independently of their origins. She could chart all of the comets and meteors, earthworms and beetles. The trees wrapped their boughs around her, reverent and wistful. The art of existence is radical and imminent.
Slowly, she became a tree. Regarding, keeping. No matter how the story ends, she could lay on the mosses and close her eyes. Wild grasses would reclaim her heart. Forest mice would build their nest in the cave of ribs. Love would live.
She whispered her prayer to them, the mice. Shadows crawled closer. Trees bent lower, listening. How could she ever see her friends again.
Her first memory of dirt: gardening with her mother and overturning a stone. Mesmerized, reborn, her land, her hand. Clovers sprouted over her like clouds eclipsing the sun. Something that didn’t hurt. Maybe she would become them, too... warp the light around her body. Become the light. Be the doorway. Reflect it and change it. Make something new. In the night, iridescent on the damp forest floor.
“Are you listening?” Eyes drifted upwards, her painting half-finished. The bristles clouded a glass of river water, clinking against the rim as sediment settled like smoke.
"We held your feet when you were born, bathed in us. We remember."
Irises stretched deep enough to swim in. Cool water trickled over her bare skin. The forest held her hand, brushed her hair, gifted her a name.
Tilted into sunlight. The microscopic mountain ranges in her fingerprints. The freckle on her left hand. The dirt from planting on her fingertips. The body of earth. Twisting like gyroscopes. Like parchment, scraped clean, hung tightly to dry. Waiting for a divine word, charmed lilies proliferating the margins. An illumination, an unveiling, an apocalypse. The word of a god, punctuated by freckles and scars. Dirt and insect wings. Unspoken, eyes closed under dirt. There may not have been twice as many stars, but her book--her body-- felt light on her skin, in her blood.
She could yell or scream or run. She could climb and burrow and fall. She accepted them. To be fossilized, to burn, to decay. A fleeting thing, an embraced verdancy. The moss agate bookends were on the shelf with white painted trim. Collecting dust, written, unwritten. Known, unknown.
Turning the page, her arm swept over the sun, smearing light down to a glowing understory.
Dec 22, 2024
Dec 22, 2024 at 10:50 AM UTC
The morning air was cold in the forest.
Sweeping black wisps in a microscope lens, her eyelashes outlined an illuminated tapestry reflected back. Sunlight brushed them, the feathery frame changed; from crows taken flight to a gilded insect’s wing. Icy fingers slowly opened the tubes, aquamarine humming with rusty umber. Dawn suddenly unfolded -- a cacophony of colors flowed and collided in dance, like fluids mixing. Interconnected here nor there, alive and dead. Our destinies are prewritten revelations echoed behind a closed door. Fallen asleep, the earth turned. Waiting for wings, to remember or not. Flutes floated in the forest.
Late autumn leaves muddled under footprints as she trailed over dew-beaded clovers, eager for warmth. The canvas stretched and yawned across pillowy mosses, crawling into pastel blue and pink lichens. Rich with abundance, ancient fossils petrified in phthalo and quinacridone. Colors swam like waterfalls in the hum. Water wrapped rounded stones like a gift, carrying the rains to ease the path. Tied root ladders of grandmother trees spoke quietly and whispered secrets.
She wondered who she would love, for how long. Back then, soon. Never at all. All at once. The cells and molecules danced in the sun, exuberant, entirely animate within her. Around her. They all called her name. Her limbs ached with longing and belonging.
The birds fell silent. The whooshing water and gentle wind lulled.
Filaments of starlight filtered through the last tails of fog. The forest was overflowing with love. Colors moved independently of their origins. She could chart all of the comets and meteors, earthworms and beetles. The trees wrapped their boughs around her, reverent and wistful. The art of existence is radical and imminent.
Slowly, she became a tree. Regarding, keeping. No matter how the story ends, she could lay on the mosses and close her eyes. Wild grasses would reclaim her heart. Forest mice would build their nest in the cave of ribs. Love would live.
She whispered her prayer to them, the mice. Shadows crawled closer. Trees bent lower, listening. How could she ever see her friends again.
Her first memory of dirt: gardening with her mother and overturning a stone. Mesmerized, reborn, her land, her hand. Clovers sprouted over her like clouds eclipsing the sun. Something that didn’t hurt. Maybe she would become them, too... warp the light around her body. Become the light. Be the doorway. Reflect it and change it. Make something new. In the night, iridescent on the damp forest floor.
“Are you listening?” Eyes drifted upwards, her painting half-finished. The bristles clouded a glass of river water, clinking against the rim as sediment settled like smoke.
"We held your feet when you were born, bathed in us. We remember."
Irises stretched deep enough to swim in. Cool water trickled over her bare skin. The forest held her hand, brushed her hair, gifted her a name.
Tilted into sunlight. The microscopic mountain ranges in her fingerprints. The freckle on her left hand. The dirt from planting on her fingertips. The body of earth. Twisting like gyroscopes. Like parchment, scraped clean, hung tightly to dry. Waiting for a divine word, charmed lilies proliferating the margins. An illumination, an unveiling, an apocalypse. The word of a god, punctuated by freckles and scars. Dirt and insect wings. Unspoken, eyes closed under dirt. There may not have been twice as many stars, but her book--her body-- felt light on her skin, in her blood.
She could yell or scream or run. She could climb and burrow and fall. She accepted them. To be fossilized, to burn, to decay. A fleeting thing, an embraced verdancy. The moss agate bookends were on the shelf with white painted trim. Collecting dust, written, unwritten. Known, unknown.
Turning the page, her arm swept over the sun, smearing light down to a glowing understory.
