Gathering
by Beth Konkoski
I see the wild places
ungroomed, untrammeled,
unwatched
until I intrude, add
my steps, my quiet eyes,
my pen. They give me,
these places, no attention,
continue long after I have left.
The bones of a beech tree
brittle and spined,
husk of a puffball
small twist of smoking
spores, a frothing spring,
some deep belly gurgle
spat from a cave
beneath roots, the red
of a leaf, new fallen
and placed by planetary
forces in the center
of a puddle black
with old rain.
These I gather, hold onto
and breathe in as I journey back.
Gyroscope Review 43
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