Myth of Arrival

Here is a forest and you should linger.
The sun is bright and I am a forest,
river, a creature of August. Offer
me green sap, gold leaf, say the word, “August.”
I give you myself freely. The queerest
things happen in forests. Do you
know that? I am the blue August witch; lust,
tempests, transit. In my green kingdoms, blue
scars, red runes; I love you all. Wait for me.
Will you do that? Walking and talking through
winter, will you wait for me? I stumble
along, I look everywhere. You must be
here. You who will wait for me. You who
are a memory lost in this dazzle.

This entry was posted on Saturday, July 21st, 2007 at 10:11 pm and is filed under Original Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.