The Land

I hold onto it,
the golden string,
weaved around wooded hills,
trunk on trunk,
run on for miles
and each tree goes
fearlessly undressing,
aflame as if
affronted by time.
Sometimes I
am affronted by time,
and I pull it long,
that ancient vine,
sew a camisole,
with which to hide
this bare soul,
barer still
now Autumn's here.
And if I met you,
face to face,
chest on chest,
there, where snow is later,
I bet,
set to fall, set to rest,
perhaps I'll be met
in this wicked shine,
cracked porcelain,
bark hues stranding
from top of my scalp,
by something worthy
of opening for,
or perhaps the elements
are the only spirits
with which I stand.
We watch seasons lap,
wax and wane,
tuck my knees in tight,
rest head above,
let the light shift, focus,
as Moon, who never really leaves,
lifts her wide face,
looms out there
and the cord,
the one I severed
in order to protect myself,
well, it begins to weave again,
organically glistening
through the dark.

See, we are all capable of repair
after wounding,
over and over again.