Posted by: scintillatingspeck | June 26, 2013

Mountain laurel crone.

gnarled, wiry mountain laurel branches
witchy forest fingers twining
bursting with soft, girlish blooms
in the damp, dark hemlock gloom

there was an old woman
who lived in a stew
of her own thoughts,
caught in silken webs
spun by casual liars–
her fire ebbed,
her youthful dew

lying alone on the forest floor
waiting to die
or for a secret door
to creak improbably ajar
beneath the fallen evergreen needles
she dwelled far
from home

in that mossy quiet
the ferns unfurled their defiant fronds,
a riot of chartreuse,
raising their greening fists
to aver,
we have endured
these many millions of years,
and we still fill up
with the fulgor of juice

heeding the fern-clarion,
a river of scurrying mice descended,
solemnly surrounding the woman,
lying supine and still–
a rodentian conference,
a path amended,
as tiny paws clawed the ground
beneath her feet and shins,
borrowed web-silk to re-spin
into earnest ropes
tugged her limp body to a stand
planted her in the ground
up to her gnarled and bony knees

leaping back with stunned squeaking
the mice ringed round, agape
at the shocking shift that took shape,
limbs surged with sudden sanguine fluid,
crepe skin hardened to bark,
the botany of metamorphosis
stark, numinous, effloresced
as the crone’s ignited eyes burst open
and mountain laurel blossoms flew out

beneath the long-despondent shadow,
the incarnadine buds laughed
with the chiming of a thousand maidens,
filling the forest
with aestival effervescence,
jubilant foam.


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