shayarisms4lovers June18 147 - I Wish I'd Written This

I Wish I’d Written This

The Forest A cold stream, a wooden cup. There was no question of where you would cross or where you would stop to drink. And still I ask – what brought you to me? The plain succour of my axe cleaving the distance? The mischief of new brome grass at your knees? The trees will count all the years we’ve lived, and then they will keep on counting, or fall down or be felled, or burn standing or in a stove, the fire a bright prayer releasing carbon, all the words uttered, our first exhale and our last. There will be the things we have chosen to dwell upon, and the things we have chosen to forget, as well as the pine needles, caught in your hair, our bodies cradled in cacophonies of wildflower and lichen. But first there will be intentions and mutability, a study of light and clouds through the treetops, the subtle ways to give ourselves completely. The passing corvid, aware of its reputation for intelligence, will fly over, clearing its throat. -Clea Roberts   Riverine Where the Nisutlin grew shallow and swift, we rested our paddles on the gunwales, only dipping them to steer. We watched […]

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