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A Place I Sometimes Reside



Reside: late 15c meaning “to settle, to rest, linger, be left.”


Gownless and splaying open to wind. The harbor and habitat of wet branches reach, rising, sap full. The water of life tunneling through heartwood, into old branching bones. Maple of sinew and a seed’s story you are the dream-catcher for a den nesting in your leggy mesh.

There, a musky collection of brown, sturdy oak leaves and necessity is fastened. Where each leaf was carried jaw by jaw in pre-morning light. A congestion of leaves and matted sleeves of fur forever being tucked into finger like twigs; in and out and through. A place of feasting and birthing and nut glutted slumbering sewn fast by needles of wind. The rules of weaving and aerodynamics apply here.


This place I sometimes reside with wild, white teeth bared, pitches precariously at the edge of its world. And yet anchors well to the great hum beneath.


Will you wed me to this?


Will you weave me into the tangle of this exposure for a day and a night, warless and utterly unconcerned with the price of hog bellies?


Leave me here to gaze open-eyed, settled, up and up through the crosshatched tangle of flowing sap-lines, into the hull of eternity, into a shimmering of broken brights singing sea shanties to the moon.

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@ Tracy Chipman - Storyteller / Proudly created with sweet creative juice & some cursing!