V. H. King's Ink

An Aside: As you might have noticed,

I’ve been doing a lot of pondering on changes

this year. I wrote this on one of those days when I wrestled

with how different things had become, admitting that certain chapters of my life

were most certainly past but unsure of the likelihood of peace in the near future.

A small moment of rest, so to speak, with a wall of forest

in front of me–thick and unending.

---

In the Clearing

I’ve been thinking of turning 

points and flames snuffed out,

dust settling back into its womb

which just so happens to be the grave

that gave it life. Feel the smoke lick

your ankles as it clears off, kissing

your shoulder and fingertips goodbye. 

>

Do your lungs tremble as the ground 

cools? Can your gut guess what comes

next? Can you taste young greenery

between your teeth like a breath held

in, a cry let out, a song lifted up?

>

Doesn’t your skin itch with the sense 

of coming down, coming to? Aren’t you

worn flat, after having made it 

through all that jungle: the heat

>

of watching eyes, numb-parched nostrils

flaring, ash-ragged knees dragging

through the underbrush, slick-tongued

shadows squeezing the heart right

out of you? Will you still dream?

>

Can you find the strength to count

your breathing? Without hollowed

logs underfoot, when long grass licks

up morning dew and evening mists;

once your spirit settles its thrashing,

the molten multitude of forfeited hopes

and stalled dreams cooled into puckered

ridges and scorched scar-seams:

>

anxieties hiss and recede and you find

yourself wondering, in the quiet blinks

after sunrise, in waning moonlight:

what next?