the moment you enter, you are centrifuged
to crumbling confessions
scar tissue in weathered space
armoring pine cones, hardly visible
how the fog braids its silver strands in this bird-less forest
tempering starving moss with ice-cold touch
lifting fullness to condensed fists
you follow a trace of footprints
smudged ash-green, but they disappear
behind wild cranberry shrubs
it starts to rain and the rain can’t stop singing your life lessons
you arrive at a lake
you watch rainwater trickle
in its fog-glazed belly
the subtleness of its breathing
your own lungs resisting to ease into their natural rhythm
how unexpectedly the fog disappears
the sky stretching its mirrored coat to a too-bright map
you are not built for this, you know
but you try to tug at its edge and
follow it to star trails
Ana Prundaru is from Bucharest, Romania. She is an animal rights volunteer and enjoys reading historical and environmental nonfiction. Her visual and literary work can be found in Gargoyle, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and Calyx, among others.
