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peatweaveroak pine river basin, rustling bamboo groves, memory-cliff echoing glyphs
carved tales of the sea a day’s walk by the water corridor, up and over steep slopes
ghost mountain’s grave-mound leaf-litter-frost ridgeline
prehistoric acorn economy..persimmons fermenting on trees.. cracking gathered walnuts with stones..
underfloor clay fire chamber heat emanates my bedding
needle- bark- tannin in a clay vessel outside, cracking frost, hides slowly tanning for a future-sewn vest
that’s how life got to be after i got arrowed down and spent a moon’s turn wounded and then fled to here
winter interregnum
found my new fate-line: a reclaiming of lands, apprenticing wilds and humans no more
first the northern lake
then the mountain farewell stolen
then the taiga, now resourced by a writing patronage which ended the argument
hadn’t meant to stay a wayfarer, but the trail keeps shaping itself, and my feet keep walking it
i will not lie, a wicked thought crossed me one night..
that precious annual fall trek they guard, to the border mountain? yeah, i’m gonna nab it for myself. show up some days quicker to the rugged lichen valley vast, after a full season of trekking and living in the betraying family’s tiny village, letting word reach him or not. my pettiness will have burned down to indifference by then. it isn’t like i want that man anymore. i’m grateful i slipped the trap, actually. but what his people did (the lie, the backing chorus, the theatre of pretending it never happened) still sits in my bones. that land wants me back anyway. i wanted to set foot in that valley anyway. i have to find out what it was all for, anyway. so let me lie in that lichen, there. let it be reckoning, or not, and let that be between him and heart mountain.
carved tales of the sea a day’s walk by the water corridor, up and over steep slopes
ghost mountain’s grave-mound leaf-litter-frost ridgeline
prehistoric acorn economy..persimmons fermenting on trees.. cracking gathered walnuts with stones..
underfloor clay fire chamber heat emanates my bedding
needle- bark- tannin in a clay vessel outside, cracking frost, hides slowly tanning for a future-sewn vest
that’s how life got to be after i got arrowed down and spent a moon’s turn wounded and then fled to here
winter interregnum
found my new fate-line: a reclaiming of lands, apprenticing wilds and humans no more
first the northern lake
then the mountain farewell stolen
then the taiga, now resourced by a writing patronage which ended the argument
hadn’t meant to stay a wayfarer, but the trail keeps shaping itself, and my feet keep walking it
i will not lie, a wicked thought crossed me one night..
that precious annual fall trek they guard, to the border mountain? yeah, i’m gonna nab it for myself. show up some days quicker to the rugged lichen valley vast, after a full season of trekking and living in the betraying family’s tiny village, letting word reach him or not. my pettiness will have burned down to indifference by then. it isn’t like i want that man anymore. i’m grateful i slipped the trap, actually. but what his people did (the lie, the backing chorus, the theatre of pretending it never happened) still sits in my bones. that land wants me back anyway. i wanted to set foot in that valley anyway. i have to find out what it was all for, anyway. so let me lie in that lichen, there. let it be reckoning, or not, and let that be between him and heart mountain.
