In an otherworld of reaching roots, notched and knobbed, intertwining with hyphae, threadlike and ghostly, deep underground, deep underfoot, there is an exchange of carbon and knowledge and a certain root-skirting for space, legacy of what it will take, what it will take, what it will take to endure.
At the ridge of escarpment rising and lustering in layered cake, star woman ascends to the sky in her nightgown and striped stockings. She slips off the earthly like sensible shoes, defiant of all that's contrary, dragging her down in a gravity of naysaying.
Star woman, core heat woman, keeper of elements, she is radiant of an inner phantasma, points of light in her eyes, her fingertips, her elbows and knees.
Her belly burns a definitive life, every sighting an Andromeda, lifting white hot with small fusions. No lost pleiades, pursuing her path along the ecliptic where planets wander and muse. Creative? Combustible? The same she-clusters luminous.
Tree vista in the tree house, tree feeling. Hours in the woods frames a day almost skeletal, sunrising and setting on the cacophonous calling of cranes and their wet feet, ruddering the air with wings. Tree believing, tree steepling, leaves like salvers, felted and glossy, red, orange, amber, green, greener, olive, skittering the tweety birds in the low branches Tree sprawling, freefalling, floor on high, unzippering the sky, see meadow, see valley, see house of my innocence.