Woodland Sonnets


Here are spirit levels, place holding firm,
Hard ghost rock, precambrian salutations
From creviced grimaces, stern with flowers,
Graves of lichen, moss, blueberry havens.
And, then, a body, off-kilter, unhorizontal
Despite tininess, or mightily the hold,
Each ankle-twisting step is a shallow
Consecration of mind and brain, in bone.
That thin sea knows what it is, if it knew
How much more substantial in invisible
Wind where it outgrew out in to
A smallness, nearly light, less fragile,
Like humility, the ghost in the skull,
My two eyes that see as one, as I fall.

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