branch litter everywhere. headphones on. limbs strong and hungry for this. i lifted dead broken branches, stacked and ordered them. the smell of soil rising from the thaw. meanwhile the ethereal tones of you are all i need.
pine sap. knotty small buds of ash. rough fragrant oak twigs. all torn from the tree by a great weight of ice. such glitter that i missed, coming home days too late. i had this consolation: steaming muscles, lean arms, shifting shoulders, strength of my back, great limbs creaking as i moved them.
now the year has turned. trees have swept away the old. all that broken stuff. green needles papering over the soil.
the forest path, winding and tree-twisted, the birches arched by ice-weight over the path.
when the snow came i jumped, i leaped, up to my knees, over my knees. drowning in cleansing white.
