Special: Home

I walk
Through the woods;
Leaves,
felled by cold
Crinkle on my dirty feet
Like fingers in fur,
like bees through a spider web,

I
Am Heavy;

I
Am trapped.

My feet
Marching to a tune
One heard from the bell in my heart
My eyes
Seeing
My soul
Touching, touching.

Squirrels
Their black eyes staring
Staring at the stranger
One with no rights to their wild kingdom
I am that stranger.
I have no rights.

My friends take their tea here;
A dance hall
For the wild,
And I am an unwelcome guest
One who will not leave when asked.

Then, the wall

High stones and High sky

My bones ache to touch them
My feet move there on their own.
My breath greeting
The cold-hearted stone,
I sit.

A stick
My friend to greet the cobwebs
Silver whispers in the wood
Which I take down gently
Lays on that stone,
Caressing the rock.
Caressing the moment.

I stare.

Empty grass is icy green
Trees reach for it with their brambly arms
Unable to reach it.

Climbing down,
I touch it for them;
The wind is singing in my hair.

Home, your wild--
The song of
Rosy-fingered dawn
Long past from unfeeling stone.

Mine.

Grass and vines embrace
My wall of stone in a living grasp
Wrapped around them, waiting
Watching,
Waiting.


Sitting on my loyal stone
My aching feet take their rest in the dirt,
And I give the gift of my smile
to these wild lands.

Mine.

A moment is coming
One to alter me, one to move me forward
I recognize it.

Sitting on my rain-wrung rock
I wait.

I close my eyes
Identity resonates
with the song of sweet wind
 in the locks of my hair.

Touching their ten fingers to my heart
These moments thrive to make me
Against the taint of dirty hate.

I open my eyes again
The breath of blue winter against the green of icy fall
So do my eyes greet this greatness
And I wait.

Clutching the pages of Sappho,
Running my nose through the smell of her
My eyes on the words of her--
The joy hurts too much to live
And it dies as the dust of the wild
Flares from the cover as I
Empty my eyes of the sight of words.

Alone again.

I picture
The point of my invasion--
A red book,
A silver sun.

Everything.

I greet my home, I touch the door
I turn back to the forest
And the wind sings in my hair.

Home.