Rooted Sky 2007 - III. Words Around Death
The Rooted Sky Exploring a stream, I found roots iced with clay, rigid in the August wind. Or were they spindly toes? a ruddy starburst? Swiftly I climbed their flaky cliff, wormed between them: into that roost where the sky now lured me with its wooden lightning, and standing, gloried - Indian, Norseman. Or were they tentacles? Spinning over thistles, careening, I tripped in a dog-hole, gasped, looked back. Or were they strange calendulas? worn men's knuckles? just shadows?
------- Brian A. J. Salchert