The Legend Of The Wood
Published on Excavating the Underground
We all have our stories to tell.
The weak and the strong, the rich
And the poor, the old and the young.
Which story do you have to tell, and
From which point-of-view do you wish to person?
Losing water from the beauty of river bank
The One appears in a world
Of blindness traversed by feeling
The leaves on the corn plants and following
The rows, then stumbling through the bean plants,
And wading through the wheat.
The shore beats me to the Salty River
And spills its angled plots of produce
Into the muck of eoned knowledge.
I race like a cloud to see everything
And forget that I am only dissipating.
She waits under the sheet of night,
Upon the bank of the river,
Lying among the reeds,
Naked, wet with sweat, asleep,
Fingernails combing her pubes,
My name upon her lips, the tip
Of her tongue tapping the ‘t’
After the serpent hiss of ‘s’,
The shudder releasing her dream.
Her name is Legend of the Wood
The Lady of the Violets;
Her name, soon to be forgotten.
By Stephen Page
