 | | 2013-09-23 23:15
From blog My Kingdom for a Hat
little red
In a time when I still counted years
I skipped from fen to forest
with a basket over my arm,
with offal tripe and fruitcake
tucked into a pouch of love
from mother to grandmother,
and I, the intergenerational messenger,
I skipped from fern to fungi to roots
that stretched out,
angling to ensnare.
I counted brushes of my feet against the ferns
and stones against my heels
and whispers of wind
inflating the lining of my cape.
And when a thin, keening voice
wailed my name between howls at the rising moon,
I didn’t stop to let its portent soak.
I was too steeped in my love of the
numerical,
the...
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