I read a story in a book about
trees and leaves and moss and such which told of
small lives below earth’s surface. Just around
root and ring were these lives, each holding on
to the magic of quiet and concealment.
And the story said, if you sat under
the trees, cleared a small circle of leaves and
sat inside it, your back braced against a
tree trunk, you would feel the small lives pulsating;
feel the blinks of tiny, seeing eyes boring
through their ceiling which, as I have told you,
is the earth’s crust. And, if you are lucky
enough to have with you a child or a
lover, and, if you pull the silence up
under your chin like a quilt, you can sleep
and dream the dreams of kings and queens and claim
the gifts of gods.
