The Forest is Lit From Within
by Astara
The turquoise of dusk infuses the canvas.
The waning sun paints mystery
as gold onto the trees.
Somewhere in the distance
stars begin to dust everything.
Perhaps some trees will fly.
Violet washes the forest floor
and for a moment the poles reverse,
divinity is at the roots
and lust sways in the sky.
Eternity whispers in the breeze
as trees listen between branches.
They answer with their own language,
laying violet leaves at your feet.
One foot and then another
as the earth meets you:
bark, twig, moss, stone.
Each step releasing
a new color,
releasing the scent of the unknown,
stirring the musky opening of life.
Image: Edward Steichen’s Nocturne painting, c. 1904.
The poem was born while gazing upon this painting at the Georgie O’Keeffe Museum in Sante Fe, New Mexico in 2011.
