by Mary Lambert
This dark, red interior bleeds.
There is ache. The loss of Spring
brings an odor that is pervasive.
I know that time brings Mahogany,
rich with burnished glow and power.
But for now, I long for fertile soil,
supple branch and sap that runs.
In this maze of rooted traps,
pulling away tangled strands
is hard labor. And yet, a loved
effort that casts a beam North.
This trail portends sunset,
a nether-side to life where
rules reverse and age brings
liberation. And, as I pull away
and move forward, an obsidian
reflection gathers, more beautiful
for its difficult birth.
This work gathers value slowly.
Like amber, its jeweled stigmata
shows an eminence of ancient movement
writhed on the trail north.
Hair gathers ice, skin creases; at times
I turn to stone; only to be chiseled and
sanded, worked by some mystery I have
longed for forever, on numerous trails,
all going North.