I go to the woods to find myself,
without history,
without judgement.
There, I become the orange salamander seeking water again, after years on dry land.
I become the twiggy oak, knee high with leaves the size of my head, gathering as much sunlight as they can through the crowded canopy.
I become the wintergreen crawling along the forest floor.
Green leaves with red berries all winter
now
tiny, white, waxy, trumpet flowers.
I become the soft song of wind and spring leaves
as well as
the damp paper of last years leaves under my boots.
I become the deer bone the dog noses from the ground, licked clean and loved to death.
I become the mosquito I slap at on the back of my calf when she stings me and somehow survives and flies away.
I become the language of tree rubbing again tree, a voice expressed and noticed by few.
I become the patient rock on top of the tumbling wall,
the broken twig,
the spider web that tickles my face,
the creamy mushroom with a bite taken out of it, and
even the narrow deer trail I follow.
I become the birch bark colored moths that spring up around me as I walk into the unknown.
