mossy justwrite.

Mossy thoughts on my mind and on my bookshelf, stories where people grow wings and then nothing grow wings and then nothing happens, or at least nothing very noticeable. I let my hair down, not often enough but long enough to feed the wind its secrets, clean it of crude oil and lard, let the moss seep in, touch my skin with fairy footprints and deer footprints, instincts to turn away from the morning light, born without a scent, watching as depth melts from the world, an abstract watercolor or connecting all the wrong dots. On weekday evenings, I walk through the woods, feel like dancing but am so afraid the acorns are watching me that I can't, so I strip away my shoes, notice I'm not wearing socks, taste the Earth with the bottoms of my feet and the tip of my tongue, then wish for silence, just enough for an hour or a lifetime, enough time to rearrange my thoughts so I know the truth about myself, not my silhouette through a frosted window, not by interpreting the secret, quiet language I carve into the thinnest ice, not measuring the length of my eyelashes or counting the slaves I've freed, just something I haven't quite realized yet, or ever, it's possible. I weave blankets from the meadow grasses but miss my oak leaf pillows sometimes, the thick dreams they painted on my forehead, slow and rich like the smell of maple or pine or something else that's faster when it's warm, but not much faster. When I find my shoes again, the moss has grown over their soles, so I leave them behind and find my own way.