rooted

rooted close up s

I am looking for the parts of me I have lost. Where are they?

The invisible ones, I mean. Not the bones beneath skin, the blood red pulsing, not even the magic helix—no, the stuff that I can only sense inside my thoughts—the currents that should contain all those things that have lived through me, leaving their imprints on my past, on my wishes and dreams, on the choices I have yet to make.

My emptiness continues without plan or path. I recross myself and return over and over to the places I imagine I have already been.

Something sparkles in the branches, catching my attention. I glimpse light moving, connecting one thread to another, forming patterns.  I breathe in my existence.

They have been waiting for me, kept in trust for my return—these memories were left here with the trees.

This is in response to another old photo prompt of Sue Vincent’s (above), from May.  I did the art but never wrote anything to go with it.  Merril’s prosery prompt at dVerse, to use Jo Harjo’s words, “These memories were left here with the trees” in 144 words of prose, reminded me of the photo, so I pulled out the painting again.

rooted s

 

Acquainted With the Night (after Robert Frost)

acquainted with the night s

The day was grey, dying, losing its grip. Silhouettes of broken promises cut the distance into unrelated pieces.  The landscape was confined, restless, waiting on the edge of night.

She was unoccupied, absorbed in her solitude, when far away an interrupted cry broke the spell she had unconsciously cast. The stitches fell into the long gone as she tried to gather in the few remaining threads of meaning.  Crow, she said, Crow.  The iridescent blackness echoed and magnified the emptiness of her voice.  She was nothing now, surrounded by the remains of what had almost been.

Wings sounded, pouring into her mind from everywhere. What had been hidden now emerged.  What had been lifeless grew roots and branches and leaves.  The air glittered with possibility.  The intangible multiplied and divided.  The spiral awakened and uncoiled.

She was no longer alone.

acquainted with the night close up shear s

Bjorn at dVerse introduced a new form, prosery, which merges a line from a poem (in this case “when far away an interrupted cry” from a poem by Robert Frost) into flash fiction of 44-144 words.  I am not a fiction writer and I’m not sure this is actually fiction.  But I enjoyed writing it.  I was inspired by finding one of my collage crows while (still) searching for the birdlings.  They’re here somewhere.