The Year of the Wood Sheep

I once lived measured and cut, rigid among fish. I read the same books over and

over; I ate oats in bed. Then came the Year of the Splash. Then came the Year

of the Fog. And the Storm. Then the Year 

of   Forgetting.  

This is the year   I recover   from the blast.

A spinning globe leads my way as I track Aurora Borealis, as I learn to speak in

tongues and lick the paws of those who’ve left me.

For me

 

the redwoods quake, the shark swims and the baby says uh oh. Gracing spaces,

I drop a shadow as big as anyone

casts, then bigger. I will not

ask myself how to read in the dark. Or how     your mouth,      silent as a cat’s,

spoke to me how the only way I’ve ever heard it:   there you are  there there 

you are.

 

Published July 2021, The Driftwood Press Literary Journal