the amnesiac in the forest

I wandered the woods,

my heart sore and battered

from a thousand tiny insults

—a stone and a stone and a stone—

that scarcely belonged to me.

I could not quiet my mind

I could not allow

leaf incense

scudding clouds

the breeze

the gentle and gracious embrace

of my every footstep

to simply be enough.

Then,

as though called in

from the bumptious schoolyard,

my feet came inexorably

to Her:

the old Crone Stone

the spine of the land

granite-veined and moss-furred

rising stately

from a bank of fallen leaves.

I bent and pressed my forehead

to her cold, rough skin

I cried out

Mother, what can I do?

I lay my lips against

her ragged ribs

and that

was when I heard her whisper

Love it all, life-worn child—

for all of its

hideous excruciating beauty

is Me.