Into, and Out of, the Woods

I have lived nine lives in this one lifetime. And, 2010 B <3 K, I saw this too was nine years ago. Two since, have I let destroy me in starts and stops for the evil I’d done, or the way in which I’d begged the spiritual world to crucify me—fix me to these very trees.

False Lily of the Valley, then the scary woods where I once raced through the death-quiet of where it seemed rapes of Chinese maidens, with eyes-round were the work of squinty-eyed Finnish blondes who raised them up a painful level—sardine scales under their nails.

But, today, the places where I once put my diamond wedding ring into my mouth to protect it from the homeless who made camp in this darkest part of forest, I stopped to watch a banana slug make its way to a marshmallow fungus on day-glow green, the moss that blankets the old black cuts to alder and hemlock.

Thimbleberry and a young man leaves his name, not realizing the word-worthy will connect connotations to ripe and teeth-razored nipples, he, unconsciously, either a fag or a mamma’s boy and again that’s nothing this old witch needs to steady her rooted horse legs. Where is my Odin?!

Spunky and Skipper. No, he wrote Skipper and Spunky, his name first, so it takes an entire walking meditation to see--no, don’t cry of any failure there where the man still places himself aHead. Just as he did in the Manti Temple before being reprimanded by a white-haired Seventy with the tanned and clubbed hands of a life-long farmer, twisting barbed to tight on hand-hewn cedar, throwing bails all orange twined, and his message stuck, even more firmly in my mind. When will all of these men learn?

Forgive me my faith and my failures, for my feeling lonely despite all the light.