Trees bending creak
like knobbled knees
branches are fingers extending
from an old woman’s gnarled knuckles
wisps of hair tremble in the breath
of an entire forest’s combined exhale
limbs shiver as her clothes fall
bare, her body’s scars
carved and twisting up and down
her trunk, mingled with night shadows
reflecting of the moon and stars
constellations map the way
far underground
to her thick and tangled roots.
like knobbled knees
branches are fingers extending
from an old woman’s gnarled knuckles
wisps of hair tremble in the breath
of an entire forest’s combined exhale
limbs shiver as her clothes fall
bare, her body’s scars
carved and twisting up and down
her trunk, mingled with night shadows
reflecting of the moon and stars
constellations map the way
far underground
to her thick and tangled roots.
Tracee Clapper lives with her husband and their children, in Charleston, SC. She spends time in and draws inspiration from natural bird habitats. Some of her work has been published in The Blue Nib. She writes to heal her soul and those of anyone else within whom her work resonates.
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