Isabel Rhoten

A handmade fire. My gaze fixed on it. The deep amber of its glowing center. Tangle of root. Rot. Of bark and branch. The gradual unraveling of burn. Birch. Dogwood decomposing. The old oak within me. Listen as it sizzles. Spits. Red maple exploding orange. Hold a picture of the color in my head. Now fetch the ax. There is wood to be chopped. Fallen walnuts for a pocket. In the garden a lost rabbit. In bed lack of sleep. These treeworms in turmoil. Sound of steel splitting stem. A moonbeam bemused me. Brown mountain. Downwind my sight shrouded in smoke. Find an instinct to follow. A path. A pull. Uphill a herd of deer. Wide-eyed. This wonder. Piled into a stillness. Hear the silence they carry with them. Flight of the crows. Cleaving a cloud. It’s the rhythm of survival. It is breath. It’s divine. Not a personal storming. Whether lightning strikes a flock or not. Whether the birds drop in unison. Or one. By one. There is blue in my thinking. Sudden births. Idea that died. Beautiful portals forming renewal. No mind a forest couldn’t quiet. A quell. Called to enter the great flow. Golden arrow soaring. Presence is now. Here. Every leaf tilled to soil. Always a circle. An unwavering chain. Source of life. Energy. Heat. Palms cupping the pour of the snow. Feel the star laugh ripple. Ripen. A memory bell ringing your name. Hm. Someday that won’t matter. Much. It’s all patterns anyway. Prior weaving. Something to grin about later.