‘Mouthing words’
Two shadowy specters,
sharp lines of hollow
cast by the withered elm
outside my window,
where a rope swing once hung.
I remember when my lines snapped,
and the rubber rolled to the edge
of asphalt,
before autumn
filled it with dry leaves,
like a ball pit fit for squirrels.
And they never were
able to find acorns
in that empty center,
though they played
as if it didn’t matter.
The tree laughed at us both—
pursuing the lifeless
with precious little time left.
From our first breath,
even full-grown,
it began counting circles
till our deaths.
So I am writing in black ink
to commemorate those moonlight twigs,
waving archetypes across my wall.
I’ve grown up,
don’t need the shapes,
and woodland creatures share this warmth.
What’s a woodland if it can’t lose one?
Plus, I brought acorns,
and my hands cast kernels
over pulp,
as my fingers thorn
my heart for meaning.
Warm from the fire,
my silhouette presses
against the forest,
I wonder why, or
even if I’m a cliché.
Maybe I’m bad;
maybe, if you are,
you can’t ask.
-N&A
