The cloaked mountains make my breath smile
easing up against my eyebrows like a wiggly
exclamation mark caught up in chimney smoke
destined for the highlands. I forget to breathe.
The moon wears her silk gown this afternoon
trailing the sky like jet stream; women whisper
after her wherever she goes. Men trace the edges
and those in between wear for themselves the splendor.
Spectacular, truly, the vines caught swift amongst
the bird songs, housing for themselves the branching
flowers and nestlings. Songs have been written about
these moments. Poems, composed, like this one.
I lean back against the oak trunk, fallen and
heard and become the forest for myself.