When the moonlight cracks through
bristling pine they come, the rag-shod
little ones, crowned in garlands spun
of lilac and bird bone, hair whistling
with prairie grass,
They play hopscotch with deer femur
and the whites of Mother’s eyes, stash
in hollows of heartwood dolls of dead
leaves and mushroom-matted mason jars
where time ferments a summer night
forgotten long ago.
Until dawn they skip, the
woods rising like Lazarus
in their wake, the three aspens
stretching tall out of worm-rot
grave, the treehouse cradled
safe in long-dead bows.
Listen: They will whisper you
a path out of beetle-gnawed
pinewood and the scars
woven across your wrist.
Follow it.
You know the way.
Cassandra Jordan is a writer living in New York. Her work has most recently appeared or is forthcoming in the ASP Literary Journal and the Arlington Literary Journal. She is interested in the histories beneath history and the stories within stories.
photo by Magova G (via pexels)
Crow & Cross Keys 