Oak Skin
By Kris Ringman
Every wood I’ve stepped into
has a watchful crone, a witch whose skin
resembles the bark of an ancient oak.
She spins her wool by moonlight,
she threads her fingers through the moss,
and knows exactly which mushrooms to pick.
I don’t need my hearing to feel the changes
in the wind when she slips out of the gaps
between the rocks and the trees, her voice
I feel in the roots I step on, in the stones
I try to avoid with my bare feet that always
manage to bruise me, test the calluses I’ve grown
with each stride I’ve taken through these trees.
I’ve sung to her beneath the arms of the beeches
reaching towards the birches, though she never
listens to me. I imagine she laughs at the tune
I cannot keep, before moving on, gathering weeds
by the stars, mixing potions to use on people
like me, who would walk into her arms gladly,
wishing she were an old aunt I could visit to learn
everything about this world she keeps to herself.
--------
Thursday was as hot as Wednesday -- we still have the portable air conditioners on -- so except for a walk in the afternoon to put my feet in the lake at the beach, I spent most of it indoors. I got a bunch of important online shopping done; we're getting the sleep sofa for the spare bedroom delivered tomorrow, so we need mattress covers and sheets and stuff.
I had ridiculous conversations about Taylor Swift with friends who will probably stay up all night listening to Speak Now (Taylor's Version) (I'll wait till morning), and I chatted with my Thursday night chat group. Now we're watching what's going to be the final season of The Other Two, which I feel guilty makes me laugh so hard. Around Alki Beach last weekend:
No comments:
Post a Comment