ReclamationReclamationReclamation by ~apox0n
The barren earth
scarred crossways with tread marks and grease stains
mechanical game trails
lying silent and cold
in the rain that turns dirt into mud that
cakes to shoes like new soles
pushing up and up and up.
And rivulets form in tire tracks
drip down into
Seeping and creeping and gathering where ponds used to be
Water hasn’t forgotten its purpose
pounds dirt ‘till it softens
so that grass stretches up and breaks through the clods
blossoming out like a sunrise
And by the new-formed ponds
startled by our footsteps,
swim down and down and down
into the mud.
Phantom LimbsPhantom LimbsPhantom Limbs by ~apox0n
We were almost home
when you stopped the car in the middle of the street,
stared down the road at where the woods
used to be,
like a man who’s just lost his arm,
sure that if you blinked it would be there
that what you were seeing wasn’t real,
because how could something that’s been there
pulled into the driveway, parked, and said
That night I heard your footsteps on the stairs,
and I followed you outside
down the road.
There were no owls
Never would be again.
And we stumbled in the dark
walked out onto the dirt,
loose soil swallowing our footsteps,
and stood in the middle of the silence,
closed our eyes
listened for the hiss of wind through the trees,
opened our hands and felt grass brush
against our finger tips.
HolocaustHolocaustHolocaust by ~apox0n
They ripped the peace of morning with diesel engines,
steel on stone,
and the green crack of aspens breaking
Iron teeth chewing through a history of seasons
In a forest older than industry
as plows pressed against the boundary between humanity
and the divine.
And the residents fled
with a flurry of wings and the desperate scrabbling of claws,
as the trees were carried off in dump truck coffins,
rumbling towards landfill funerals
to be buried without ceremony
left to rot, far from home
in toxic soil that stops all resurrection.
Where mournful seagull cries
linger in air thick
Stories in the WoodsStories in the WoodsStories in the Woods by ~apox0n
In summer I can taste the heat,
sweet and thick and damp as the loam
it wafts from the ground
as my feet chuff through layers of needles and leaves;
stratified seasons collecting around the ankles of giants,
whose applause greets me at the first breath of wind,
and eager to share their stories.
This is my solace, my respite:
a thin trail meandering between
cedar and aspen,
pine and alder.
Where peace is the thrum of insects,
the sharpness of a rabbit darting through the brush,
and a congregation of birdsong.
A place of foreign languages
where my words mean nothing
and ancient wisdom is lost to my ears,
but I stand and listen, all the same.