You Are the Compass, Aligned

Yestereve I gave words to what scared me, spoke words that were heavy in waiting, and my period, often irregular, came at long last. And in my dreams I came into a dark and beautiful landscape of deciduous green forests and untrodden fields. In such peace my companion and I passed through abandoned school playgrounds on this frontier where hope was forsaken, for better than hope had been found. We traveled further into this unknown land, the unmarked trail our guide, until we fell into a happy festival of friends and singing. And how we cried for those we loved and missed, but we were not lonely, nor any longer heavy-hearted. The music of friendship and laughter alighted around us, and I lay in happiness as harmless stampeding souls thundered around me in a great wave of hilarity. It was the eve of the end of days within this World Who never ends as I climbed the limbs of unknown trees. There is no map to this place beyond every map’s end, heartaching Pilgrim, but that you are the compass, aligned. – Gentle Jeffrey Pine.

No Mind, Doesn’t Mind

Nonhuman friends like the Coast Redwoods, Sequoia sempervirens, know how to drink the darkness of fog to make for us small creatures -a breath of amazement- dappled sunlight higher above us than any other creature’s making. They do not mind who walks below them, or what goes on in our human minds with such heaviness. Sequoia sempervirens does not mind, nor has care of mind, nor thinks in the worries of mammalian minds at all. No mind, doesn’t mind.

Three Apples, This Child

“Three apples, this child,”

says the old woman beside me,

“Not a lot of twins these days,”

observes another: doppelgangers are

rare when nobody can see them.

Three apples, this child,

in the night woods of shadows and comfort, he follows and shapeshifts into a heart-piercing grown male,

she follows and finds him past the known world of her hairlessness

where the inhuman twins are carrying their beckoning apples.

they have fur and heat, too

they appear at the edge of the village,

sometimes with bundles of sweet red,

or green for a love potion

or yellow for the wooded sunrise winding into the east.

they arrive as the old shapeshifters,

beloved hidden in a cloak of marvelous danger

necessary, deeply and heralding

a happy death to all childhoods

song-speaking into warm beds in the great night, telling of futures past

the edge of the nursery

where for untrimmed beasts

at long last, the way is made open,

and the yearning halves of each become each,

these rightful pathways of good shadows,

full apples.