bittersweet

Only the sky is pretending

to be still.

That soft fever I get in

these woods wells up blue

and slow in my body.

Its thump is only

a piece of the life

it is going to be. A dead

tree goes into

its afterlife, a branch

casting into the land's

humming body.

A bird stills

in the green hum,

and my heart

goes soft, still fevered

and slow, greening up

into that reach

of deceiving

space.

 

©Laura Sorrells 2013

all rights reserved

Done