Pine Forest in Shroud © 2014 Bo Mackison

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.