Wednesday, May 21, 2008

these are not secrets

moss carpet
satin green
celebrating the endless
festival of small beetles with
rows of blossoms
like little umbrellas, held gingerly
up through the semi-light

lichen curtain
dust grey
drawn over spruce branches
marking their
perpetual mourning for
the loss of dry feet

broken stump
rust red
cramped with the perfect tunneled
homes of little hidden
wood-eaters, fourteen-legged
and quick to roll into a perfect
ball, armadillo-like
at the first sign of
disturbance

these are not secrets,
no, but mental images
which will you may
rediscover when the rest has
faded beyond recognition and
you can’t remember where
you left your toothbrush or
what you are doing standing
here beside the fridge

hand on the door handle, but mind
in a low stretch of woods long since
gone, its location forgotten
even in the local history maps

once, you thought a place
could be immortal

in a way, you were right
it seems
the earliest imprints
are the most resilient

Rachel Westfall
May 21, 2008

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