Nothing stands in isolation.
Experiences, stories, a life time of truths.
Traveling in a forest in fog. Water droplets suspended in the atmosphere, my vision
obscured as I peer fiercely through the mist. To no avail. Not a glimmer or a ghost.
Moisture permeates the dried, the desiccated. Ragged and spent.
A pulpy mix of leaf litter, feathers, tiny skeletons and detritus.
Life and death and the in-between takes on many forms.
A shudder up my spine, bone to bone. And I recall
my grandmother’s shivery words under similar circumstances
“Someone walkin’ over my grave.” She’d shake her head, eyes closed,
and chew her cracked lip. Back away from trouble.
I hold out my bare hands in supplication. Help me.
The trees shiver in winter’s wind.
Water drops, sanctified in the sodden oak leaves,
sprinkle upon my bare head and I continue my passage through.
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