I am Looking
I wander through mist banks
that loiter among these sentry trees.
The morning is gray and sometimes green.
Particulates mingle and merge
in the osmosis that is
this early September wood.
I am looking among its shadows
for the beautiful dryad Good.
My shoes are wet with fern fall.
My breath tumbles out white and roiled
as all the rising and hanging mass
rallies for my stretched attention,
claiming her bloodline,
wearing her look.
But I will know her when I see her.
Some say she has many names.
In deserts, cities, the coral reefs,
they say she speaks in other tongues
as different as sky from stone,
and I for one believe it, though
what she sings is always the same
unaltered song the ancient stars
took up upon their violent launch
to the furthest edges of dark.
She does not hide,
nor does she come out in the open,
waiting quietly,
calm and entirely unperturbed
by the blurry borders
putting such pressure on perception.
She sings the star-song in a whisper;
her touch, the brush of a timid feather.
Even so I know that when I pass her
slowly, or if I turn my head on chance,
a glance will be enough,
and I will stop and say hello.