Year of writing 99. 9/30

4/9/12


There is a place where sunlight
falls heavy through leaves like oil.
A place where grasses etch themselves
across the backs of your hands. Here your
head is cumbrous and inconvenient -
leave it behind.  Here your heart is
shopworn and cloying - leave it behind.
Be all skin and nerve, fingers and guts.
Stuff your fists with earth and hold
them where your head once was.
Pack your chest with moss and twigs,
bury your feet where the roots
surface like whales.  Catch the breeze in
your pockets, you are a wished-upon dandelion. 
You are a scarecrow.