Sinkhole Stories

Ivy is a kind of easy injection, bright red veins of autumn; a winding creature, tentacled around what it touches. I think I believe in nothing so much as sinkhole stories, the kind that appear out of ordinary forests, like a cave or canyon calling. They are ones that make you disappear for hours, winding around the labyrinths and caverns, trying to figure out the maze of memories. Things are no longer right in these walls, floors collapsed and construction tenuous. I rarely go inside these days, and soon, won't even be able. This place is no time capsule, though it seemed like one at first glance. All the suggestion of everything unchanging is an illusion, missing the obvious fact that much has changed already. Ivy knows nothing but up and at 'em, everything equally climbing, don't care what's coming down. Bound by ropes or vines, all that reinforcement doing nothing to stop the implosion. It will happen in silence when no one is looking.

 

October 16, 2021

Annapolis County, Nova Scotia

 

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