Wormhole

Wormhole

The tree came to the feeding
in eddies of dreamdark
night thunder and wind
discussing the storm
blowing up from the south
and the blood of the age.

I was an eavesdropper

a spy in the heartwood

of the wide-running world tree,

a hatchling consuming
its blind spiral highway

from root to the crown,

my corpus a conduit for

time's succulent cambium,

green life pushed through me,

brown years my droppings.

I twisted my wormhole

from mud to the stars,

felt myself swelling
at the opening

with the turning inside me,
skin twitched over half-wings

as I poked my pale head out,
lightning burned into

the thousand sharp mirrors

of my faceted eyes--

but I saw what I saw

just before

the black beak

plucked me out.

~October 2014

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The Angel Oak (Quercus virginiana) John's Island, South Carolina, 
by Scott Campbell, via wikimedia commons 
Shared under a Creative Commons License

Footer: The Thief, 1996, by Jamie Wyeth

Fair use via wikiart.org