MIST
On some days
the mist
fragile though she is
masks the sun
and paints its face
with silver.
On some days
the mist
remembering
she’s part water
cascades in slow-mo
down hillsides.
On some days
the mist
needing to be still
pools and rests
in the quiet hollows
of sleeping woodland.
On some days
the mist
rises brimming
from the plain
spilling across
the high desert.
On other days
the mist
visits the urban sprawl
enquiring
at the windows
of early morning cafes
then
traffic lights turn dreamy
rush-hour fades to distance
the click, click-clicking of dogs’ claws soften
lungs become amphibious
the air beads with moisture
and concrete bridges sweat
but by eleven o’clock she’s done
dispersed by breezes
recalled by sun.
THE WOODLAND QUEEN
Come!
whisper your story
read aloud from the book of your life
sing your songs of innocence abused
intone your history
leave all your pain at my feet
scatter bewilderment at the hem of my gown.
Your stories settle on the forest floor
though it will not be long
before autumn frosts
and winter rains
push them underground
and by spring will come
carpets of celandine
wild garlic
buttercup
nettle and rose brier.