Personal Orientation

While being human

can feel like sleepwalking,

nothing needs grounding here: late summer sun,

heat, still lake. Muffled voices waft across the cove.

Jet streams criss-cross. Each wave of cedar bough

sends small needles,

a light rain of matter. Matter.

My black shadow, my skewed figure of a woman,

I cut with a fine blade, apply pressure

only on the forward motion.

The self loosens,

opens to strange surprises,

perilous fascinations.

My muse enters

wearing little shoes tied with strings.

The word is enough. Eyes. Fire. Mountain.

Sweet. Berries. Ripen.

#poetry