ah the ancient way



Annika the anchorite

Annika the anchorite spoke atop the stump to a conference of forest creatures.

"I am not of the wild, oh ye dank and heaving. Bound to my culture, a cripple sucked to many teats, I live in metaphor."

She wavered as the circling treetops let stars come pouring in. An elegant doe trod lightly in to dance with her.

"Comprehensive understanding of medicine is my flesh, a delicate soft vision my family."

She pleaded til morning rose when no more a pious simpleton sang throatily into the noise of beak and fang over foot and wing, no. In her place, with eyes quick but cloudy, a squirrel shook its body twice before carried away by force of assembled spirits.

The woods are empty now except for me, slow to grasp the absence of the place, settled on a stump in flickering sunrise through the trees again.

mud man

two tender children unattended
walk in sunshine after rain
the puddle-mud is thick as silver
upon your face a second skin

I'm a mud man
you're a mud man, too
let the mud man see himself

one reflective skin between us all
see yourself in myself seeing you

I'm a mud man
you're a mud man, too
let the mud man see himself

What is this road?

You walk into the soles of your shoes through tree tunnels touching unwanted, clearing to find the old stone circle cracking in frozen rain, druids long since wandered into mental burdens. Drop pack heavy outside the ring, sky smeared the ancient way, now get the cup and dagger.

Weakly when the night ends wander home, path brightly under cloud of fireflies, slip into the silence of your heart, stumbling in the unrhythming of love sonnets forgottening.

brian brock august 2016