how the daisy's petals
Somewhere to lick my wounds with enough space between us but not so far that I can't hear my mother calling me. Rust on my fingers, I clutch at a world beyond the chain link fence, then inchworm through the gap where brambles scratch the surface of the great unknown. Suddenly aware of my breath and my heart beating fast against the moss, I close my eyes and enter a rosy glow of flickering light and shade, the feather-edge and throaty calls of things I cannot name.
cumulus rising . . .
the trill and coo
of pear blossom
"Where are you?" Again, my mother's voice. The earth holds me in its scent. Ear to the ground, I laugh quietly at the tickle of eyelashes and grass. An ant scurries over the back of my hand and before long, I have lost myself in the beaten tracks of time kept by creatures that can curl up in a ball, or else have enough legs to keep on running . . .
My pulse and breath trickle into the sound of water. It will be a few years before I learn about the larvae of the sedge and caddisfly that construct a case of silk and gravel, sand, leaf confetti and bark to protect themselves from predators. It is said, that if you pluck one from a mountain stream, you will hold in the palm of your hand a miniature jewel case, fashioned from rock fragments mixed with garnet, quartz and fool's gold.
beneath the river stones . . .