You’re so light, sister bird-foot, you gust
and whistle up hill and down the side I
can’t quite see, where the ridges resurrect
the mist. Days, the woods gather
the warm and humid cool sets loose,
gray-blue pearls a girl might wear or be,
sway and drape, slow-dance the ridges mother.
Sister who was, then wasn’t, ghost story:
I’ve seen you haloed and pale
like the drowned, or blooded, flush
with energy, riding the woods’ luscious
scents, oak bark, humus, pine. Do you know
who whistled up the musk and gristle
we are? You’ve licked the light
off Four Pole Creek. If not flesh and bone,
gust in the mist. Earth is your mouth.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 2.
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