Shape of the Day
by Jo Curtain
“Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, ‘Stay awhile.’”—Mary Oliver
My day begins in the early morning light of a mountain ash forest. Mist has yet to surrender the branches, bare to everything. A stinging dampness glistens. Slowly, I follow the narrow path, past fallen moss-covered logs colonised by lines of tiny white parasols, delicate as paper, and spiralling tree ferns rise from sways of damp green lace. My eyes are drawn to flecks of orange sprayed across charred branches and tiny brittle amber shells, reminders of warmer days that cling to the bark. Wet leaves stick to my sneakers. I imagine the shape of the day and fear I won’t fit.
Unfurling
fern frond
a pattern of loss.
Traces of you find their way into the forest. I pay more attention to the details of the soil, the texture of the bark and the changing light – I can almost see you turning up ahead. I pause to sit in the hollow of a giant mountain ash tree and feel the silver coolness against my back, wood softened by age. My body entangled, one layer at a time. I’m wrapped in a heavy scent of decay, damp and living. I sink into the history. We match breath until I hardly know where I begin and the tree ends. Closing my eyes, I say, “Okay.”
Stillness
mixed with dirt
grows a seedling.
