what the wood knows
i can feel your breath from across the room. observant. intuitive. the air softens. i display botanicals in brass vessels above the kitchen sink and you approach me from behind. limbs spill over like soil, we sift through tree offerings in our pockets from the day before. wool intricacies of your sweater catching on the thorns of my rosy thoughts. ferns grow on all the places of my body you have touched, and i am not done with you, yet. what is it about the mountains that percolates your soul? grounds. on grounds. on tending to your wilderness. i keep crystals in the garden. and this is where i reintroduce myself to you each morning. i vine. i self seed. become something new like where the pines meet the sea. “arrange me into those floral hands of yours,” you say, so cardoon-like. coffee smoke climbing from your mug. to fade into the background of your voice. cool. textured. you are the constant negotiation between firewood and rain. i am here to tell you that you walk with moss beneath your feet. and if ever you forget your magic, i planted some out back for you.
