Poem to be read in the middle of the night
In the forest path dream where the light slashing through
leaves are words written too fast for me to read
And your spirit animal pauses, its white head shifting as if sniffing
the undergrowth and pulling the colors of the undergrowth into the air
I am the trunk of the blue tree, observing silently as you walk by,
grazed by your eyes like understanding is a wounding season
Still unaware the words in the air are poems I am writing
by the light that filters past me unabsorbed and I’m growing only
to be still, rooted deep at passage’s edge to the turning earth
beneath the whistling sun shuffling its days
-painting by Mary Winifred Hood Schwaner
Very compelling, Jeff, and the art makes it all the more tantalizing, accenting the mysterious air between the words.
Thank you! The art was painted by my wife, who because of a wrist injury was trying out painting with her left hand…
Outstanding — image and words! I think Mary’s left hand knows things her right may not. Hope it gets to speak again.