I taste clay-flavored memories
on the road home, reaching out of the night.
The trickle of light waving inside me sighs--
it can never shine as marvelously
as late sun leaning through droplets
on the tops of these firs and alders,
or even as the moon, remote above her clouds.
It can never lead me back to before.
Somewhere in the chorus of rain,
among scents of mud and fresh cambium,
between the last cricket’s lull and the frog’s first prelude
a new Bible has been accidentally written
right here by a forest at night.
It tastes of fresh wood, spring rain and clay.
I enter it and become.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2021
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