water moves forward despite me
while the chanterelle moves backwards
through my breath, unable to describe itself
without knowing the essence of the tree bark, primrose
& the sweet pink of an ocean salt
mixed lovingly with a riverís bed.
& the mulch of my under-darling continues always..
the forest is its own market,
always providing for itself from itself.
when i ask a creek of its destination,
it quietly remarks that it remembers me,
like a lost trout or a bit of algae
once stuck between its pebbly teeth forever.
& there are songs of passion
amongst the leaves
describing how i once adored you,
a goat that climbed a tree
instead of offering me its cheese;
a radish, in its competition with a beet
that never saw the beauty of the blueberry
that it ignored
or the bread of the morningís airey yeasts rising..
& though we donít know it
we taste it,
& we drink it..
when all else fails,
we split forth from ourselves
like roots informed of dying
from the stem
while the herbs & the spices of our bodies-lovely
continue living through our flesh.
we all come together in the end;
food, pheasants & lovers of the bone..
& we find peace amongst the islands of our tongues revealing..