Pieces of her

 

The hot air clung to her skin the way a damp piece of silk lingers before falling. 

Skin moist with the heat of the end summer when it refuses to release its grip. 

Thoughts whirring in her mind like the motor of the fan on the old dresser. 

What if she could go back, back before all of this. 

Before the big move and the job in a the foreign land. 

She did love it there but her thoughts had a way of running back through time on a Friday night. 

Back before she bought the house in a town she barely knew because the house was cheap and she was desperate. 

Back before the inheritance that sent her seeking security in a property that would become the bane of her existence. 

Winding back before the injury that left her nearly homeless but a stroke of luck gave her a wonderful couple years with her siblings. 

Back before she went seeking her education that refused to follow a sensible path and left her with a degree in art, no one does that in midlife what was she thinking. 

Back before she was fed up and decided to leave the only life she had known for 20+ years. 

Before the pain of selling the animals and quitting on a marriage that had never quite worked. 

Her mind reeled and then said no, further back go all the way back. 

Start over near the beginning what if everything had been different. 

What if instead of being traumatized she had been supported. 

What if instead of being told she was never working, trying, or doing enough what if she had been told its ok you are a child go play. 

What if she had learned to play, to relax, to unmask when young. 

What if life had taken a completely different road. The wish of something less difficult.

Then like a flash of lightning in the midst of a storm she reels back into her body, the ceiling the fan blade turning, the heat clinging to her and she remembers she has often gotten everything she ever wished for and some of the other things along the way pushed or lead to what she said she wanted.

But that didn’t stop her from wishing she had never had the trauma.

The forest for the trees?

The aspens stared at her with their unblinking eyes, 

never feeling so watched she found it difficult to move forward on the path.

Watchers were everywhere in the forest, 

they saw everything there was no need for cameras the trees had eyes.

The owls silent in the canopy watched over the glen

 as the being crept through silence was not their forte,

 snapping branches and crispy dried leaves crunched underfoot like crackers in bed at midnight.

Fans of gold fell from the heavens when fall arrived,

the rancid smell permeating the air above the golden walks.
Pink fairies fluttered in their frilly dresses on the buds of every tree when spring arrived,

the slightest breeze undressing them on a whim exposed at once to the elements.

Old and gnarled the dragon unfurls itself upwards then reaching outward and sheltering those unafraid of the embrace of the ancient.
Black and gold as the summer sun bakes the flesh and fills the air with a fragrance not unlike incense,

summer ends days rage and nights grow somber in the forests she briefly knew as home.

Outstretched twisted limbs ending in many brooms reaching for the glittering dust that fills the air with each breath of spring. 

Waking the under story from its slumber keeping watch and time.
Emerald mounds dot the hills, remains of a past that wont be forgotten and a glimpse of what the future holds for all of us.

When carving out the canyons you must be as old as time itself.

The waters have never stopped running and when they do everything halts.
Petrichlor suffocates the senses in the rising heat, 

channels carved in the path unearthing new delights, 

a bit of glass, a stone unearthed an undulating root reaching out to trip a passerby.   

The many colored snakes undulate through the forest,

grabbing at feet and tripping those who fail to notice them. 
Stumbling down passages well worn, 

roping roots and jutting rocks waiting to seize the careless.

A stillness so dark it enshrouds all that are within,

the entrance looks daunting like a veil to another realm,

invites the forest on a dark winters day. 

 
They call from the trees screaming epitaphs and cursing,  

those who dare to enter have been warned, 

you agree to walk among the ancients, 

the worn and weary, 

do not stray from the path what lies beyond is mystery.

They come to rob her of her fruits

they climb her laughter and joy fills the air, 

with each tug and pull as they rip what she bore from her limbs

 they care only for the sweet flesh of the fruits stolen.

Limbs drooping as heavy golden tears pour forth,

the burden she carries

fruits for another her labor the price of admission.
The buzzing threat of stinging rage

the base of her skirt

 her fruits spilled they to rot, wasted.