I’ve come to love the silence. In the dalliance of the day I hear the sturdy mesquite grow more knob-kneed with each fire I set by waltzing by. I am unaware that the trees — being trees– are jealous for my essence, my mouth forming words beyond a guttural clacka clack. Jealous for lithe limbs, breast buds which suffer not through winter.
A handsome tree begs of me, “Do what you please! Throw off your grosgrain, loose the heavy corded ribbon from your hair. Loose desire as I cannot! Let the wind cool your warm flesh, lift your ferociously folded hem.”
Talisman trees cast dulcet tones over a grove of enchantment I neither understand nor fear. With its twig grip over me I am cooperatively inarticulate, caught up in the wooooo, wooooo. My lips curl at the edges like a small leaf and I am myself bursting through blushing wood, whirling and twirling as devil from dust beautiful and mute before impossibly returning to impossibility.