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My steps spill rain from trees and the trees reveal the old dream faces. I write to them and Rhys sleeping and Lucy who lives in these woods. Apologies, stream of consciousness, echo poems dying for the echo: I roll these notes in leaves with ribbons bright enough to catch their eyes. In the hollows and deep branches I slip these scrolls in abandoned nests and coloured bottles. Under the bitter cherry my diary with the belts and the pin on a string, I keep it buried: the hole and earth under my nails, all the invisible living.
About Ariel Dawn
Ariel Dawn’s prose poetry recently appears in GUEST ( a journal of guest editors), Train: a journal of prose poems, dusie: the tuesday poem, talking about strawberries all of the time, and Coven Editions Grimoire. She writes with Tarot cards and oracles and lives in Victoria, British Columbia.
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