Red ribbon around the bark of an old oak tree,

a present to the woods, a marker to a walker

down its dirt paths. This afternoon I am the walker.

I pause at the tree and wonder at the sight

of a violent color tied up amongst mineral green and dirt.

I am fascinated by the word ‘capillaries’.

Tiny bursts of blood, bursting like a red

berries underfoot. Shocking and tangible

like frost on warm cheeks, bloodshot

peach-colored lips against a glass of

warm amber gothic red sunsets

blood spilled in an open field. A red

ribbon around the trunk of an old tree.

What if there is no god

only trees and woods, dirt, and animal bone,

moss, and swamp water. Perhaps god is not

a being but a vertebrae,

the node in the strong stem of a flower.

The only praise needed is photosynthesis.

We were not created in the image of but

rather for the purpose of carbon dioxide,

the exchange of oxygen             from the trees

to our lungs     to the ground

and praise be to god,                 a seedling.

The monster you will see is a form without face. Featureless, mouth an unending void. Lurking in doorways, seen only in the crook of your eye. At nightfall it will appear at the foot of your bed, shadowy body, crouching phobia. You will wait out it’s dark tenure at your back. It will run shadowy tendrils through your limp auburn hair. It will try and convince you mornings are not real. You will believe it. Someday, you will notice that the monster can change. At times it can be a woman; her touch a tundra, bleak curse of underworld ice. Her nails will tear under your eyelids. Her shadows will worm into your nose. You will not remember this, you will not remember her. Sometimes the monster is a snake slithering down your throat. Sometimes it is a hag fish burrowing under your ribs. Other times it is a song bird screaming verses into your ears. The monster will turn your mind into twilight; you will speak only in riddle and rhyme. Life will be unwound into spiderwebs. You will not fight this. You will follow the monster under the fairy hill, through the shadowed woods, into the dark. Your mother will weep in your absence. She will beg your ghost to come home. Your father will understand. He too has fought his own monsters.

Chalk maple, skinned white by wind break,

flesh soft, a heart carved where breast

would be. Crystalized sunlight spun

into icy webs draped as a blanket

over tree limbs, limbs arching

towards limbs, fingers stretching.

There is violence in this stretch of trees.

The womb of the woods is quiet.

Leaves and grass, animal bone, frozen under,

ripe red holly berries decorate snow,

thumb prints of an open wound. Root

system connects the trees below,

Heart roots, diagonally grown, interconnecting

and binding a lineage of bark, twig. Anchoring

into the soil, joining with the earth.

All a mastered order of God, or god, or gods.

It doesn’t matter.