The Clearing

I watch over as the child sleeps.
Like an eagle, I circle the roofline,
creating a nest of blessings she cannot see.

Her eyes look like closed crescents
and I notice her dreams flickering
as a soft howl comes through the open window.
I whisper to her, sing
the lullaby of the girl and the crone
laying down together in the overgrown garden,
seasons piling up around us
like a wall of stones we can read with our hands.

Then the breeze picks up its whistle
and the burnt leaves begin to hum,
and the breath that comes from the ancient well
moves us, through these crowded woods
where words touch,
where clouds land and lift,
where limbs cross and carry their weight in water,
binding us to what our bodies know.

It is here that we will finally rise.
Here, where the girl will wake
when that warm gust comes,
filled with hints
that she will only guess the answers to.

For David Foster Wallace. May his memory be an inspiration.

4 thoughts on “The Clearing

  1. Beht says:

    Hiya, Jena–
    David Foster Wallace is an amazing writer–thank you for reminding us about him…

    This poem is somehow connected to the one I just posted on the VTH for this week’s One Single Impression prompt: Seeds

    I’m going to be writing for a synchroblog in a day or so on eldership…I may link to this URL on bullseye, baby!

    Thanks, Jena–hope you are well! Did you get your wildflower seeds from the ‘where’s home’ contest?




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