Summer 2014: Young Voices
Foresters
Poetry by Sophia Mautz
I remember hearing the crackle of your boots hitting the bodies of charred logs, splitting open wild bones. I could try, but my feet were big as leaves then and I had little effect, though one day I’d come back without you and I would split open too. You fingered the Indian paintbrush and tried to find flowers I didn’t already know. I remember hearing the Aspen trees breathe as they arched over us like frozen fingers and we got tangled in the deepness. While I pulled at the purple children of blackberry bushes, you cut mushrooms from the rainy ground for grandma’s soup and told me not to wander too far, handing me a tin bucket .to fill with whatever beauty I could scrounge. Standing here ten years later, I remember your brown hand, speckled short nails. I remember the flowers – filmy and breakable. Now I’ve replaced the rain in watering the soil, the mushrooms wait patiently to be cut from their roots and I don't want to tell them that you will not come. I am ribs pried open, fingers stained purple trying to distinguish what is most beautiful in life: the red fountains of Indian paintbrush, or my hand, un-dappled, in yours?
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