We forgo the chipped pathways and lose ourselves in the graying blur of dusk,
trees erasing themselves at their edges, becoming memories of trees.
Only the suggestion of landscape remains. No harsh corners, nothing that suggests cut
or claw, though we know the sharpness the forest holds—its barb, its bite.
We move through the new darkness, howling to feel the hollow
of our throats, to enter the chorus of warning. The wind, its soft touch,
an offering. We fashion our maps into flowers, leave the folded bouquet
at the base of a hemlock, the paper curling with dew. We will find our way
by water, the stream whispering directions. We trust the assured rush,
the impulse to smooth everything it touches, pebble and stone.
What is worn away, what remains?
You point toward an opening, where the meadow reveals its curved shoulders,
turned in slumber. This is where we make our bed, our beginning.
The moonlight’s quiet reflection teaches us how to forget fingernail, elbow,
and tooth. Reminds us we are more than angle and anger
as we celebrate the softness of our tongues. What might be possible
in this enviable almost, before the morning slices through the sky?
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 4.
Amy Ash is the author of The Open Mouth of the Vase, winner of the 2013 Cider Press Review Book Award and the Etchings Press Whirling Prize post-publication award for poetry. Her recent work can be found or is forthcoming in Rogue Agent, River Heron Review, SWWIM Every Day, and Ninth Letter. She is an Associate Professor and Director of Creative Writing at Indiana State University.
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