forage

there is no mushroom hunting
beneath these trees
without hearing their stories
of oak and sky and roots –
of rain that falls
warm with summer storms
that speak mycelium.

our hands know what they know
know the scrape and twist and lift of doing
know the weight of the world
cupped between palm and fingers.

there is no walking here
without words for the trees
who hold up our sky
in their branches.
a deepening sky,
that just for this moment,
speaks a fish eagle into being.

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mourning

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if i had known
this morning,
if i had left
my door open,
the cuckoo
would not be dead.
empty body
warm soft in hand,
ghost print against the glass.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sympathize

beloved,

beloved,

i cannot swear allegiance
to your god. if it is he
who is to be the face of the beloved
then i am truly lost –
but goddess help me
i have felt the ocean in my bones,
burned with the fire
of a thousand petty suns
longing for a god made manifest.
and i know my tears
are nothing to the rain
and these hills laid
themselves down
long before i ever did,
but sometimes the sky
is not enough
and the thunder that plays me
singing bowl to the river
is nothing
to the sound
of your voice.

 

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walking away(again)

 

let me feel the
moon in the sky –
feel the tide rise
crashing pulsing waves
that animal my limbs
and fidget my fingers,
let me speak in
the tongues of the crazy
and the loved,
the muttering who
saw the world
when the rising moon
still mattered.
there is no sleeping
in this starless sky.
let me be the crone
the hag, the scare in your dark,
uglier than all your imaginings.
let daylight not find
the sky in my eyes
until this night
has walked me.
look – the moon rises,
ready or not
i rise too.

 

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acts of resistance

1. arms wide we lift
our faces to the rain
laughing at the sky
as it soaks us.

2. low sun
across the forest hill
has stalked between the trees
to find me here
mosquito swatting
hip deep and golden in coriander
snapping the bristle stalks
of marrows as thick as my arm.
sticky as summer

3. there are worlds layered
between the stars and
where i stand on the deck
waiting for night to claim me.

4. in over 800 years
this tree
has never once
stopped being a tree.
even on sundays when
the sky breaks
against the mountains and we
gasping at the chest rumbling
wonder of smiting gods
lay our thankful hands
on her crag moss trunk.
even then,
with her crown
to the cracked sky
our shining faces alive
with falling rain,
unwavering
she whispers,
tree.

5. some days all that is asked of you
is to lie amongst the arching grass stalks.
to be here on the hillside.
to breathe.

6. it was easier
to lift
francesca the goat
full pregnant
and playing
sack of potatoes
onto the shearing platform
to trim her wondrous curls
before the birth
than it was to delete an ap
on my, trying to be smarter
than i, phone.
though truth be told
goats are smellier
than instagram.

6. it is not a metaphor
rain really does fall.

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Woodville big tree. Photograph by Tamarisk-Ray Glogauer

Strategy

breathing through it

 

the year breathes.
inhales in first breath
of the trees,
stoma new opened
by the song of birds
longing for light.

it breathes,
gulps morning
lungfuls of sea mist
and krill dreams,
exhaling mountains
air warm and fragrant
and humming exoskeleton
with uncounted
translucent wings
soft through the hill grass
tossing up estuary sand
back to the sea.

breathes
in daylight and night skies
and the rise and fall of tides,
steady as the breath of the mare
my lungs pushed
hard against their cage
to keep her pace
in the quiet
in the forest.

breathes in the seeds
that wait, grow tall
and fall with the seasons.

breathed his last breath
so slow and soft
like a sigh in the ordinariness
of the grey drizzle afternoon,
then the light turned
and forest birds sang him
to the sky.

respiration inhalation,
inspiration annihilation,
exhilaration exhalation
quietly holding my breath
the world breathes me
still.

the year breathes
in gasps and screams.
in words and sighs and songs.
we are breath.
we are breathed.
we are here.

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