They have that right you know,
forest beings –
to cut mystery songs into us
that fester infectious
until they are sung out.

Etched on the backside of your skin,
termite designs written by twig fingers
on your tender bark.

I sing their songs to my son,
a curled dove-mouse in my cupped hands.
Oaks have gathered us here
inside themselves.
We are a seed
nestled within a seed.

We came to these woods
to become water students,
to discover fungus perfume,
to learn how to live inside each other,
and without.

He will trace my songs
beneath his skin.
He will return here,
when he is older,
when I am gone.

We share in their green waters.


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