The sun drops and its cooling light strains for groveling clouds a tree out front stands with hunched shoulders evening wind shuddering the leaves with the grief of the day a sad susurrus rustle, quieter than glacier mice migrating towards the brink as you trace my skin with a lighter hand than I thought possible are you following the gold lacquer scars that run the length of my body this liberated body, free from the bark corset that usually envelops it a light point floating above us I inhabit the chasm in a quiet way longing for the end of even this longing for the brink to disappear and the tree to be nothing more than a tree.
About the Poet:
Constance Bourg lives in the Flemish part of Belgium, where she volunteers at her local library. Her poems have appeared in Rogue Agent, The Poetry Shed, Blanket Sea, The Pink Plastic House anthology and the Emma Press anthology of illness. She also dabbles in collage and is currently working on a book-length erasure poetry and collage project on Tove Jansson’s The Summer Book. She leads a part-time life because of an invisible disability called ME/CFS.
I’ll think of this poem next time I’m doing a Qigong pose that I call a Wise Old Tree. Rooted and expansive. Very nice. Thank you Constance.
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