August’s frequency vibrates
my soul’s skeleton loose,
burns a fervor into its marrow,
until even my shadow sweats.
I try cultivating conversations
with cedar trees to ground myself,
but it’s the Redwoods that really know me.
My darkness is wilder
in the Pacific Northwest.
It howls against
everything that binds it.
It wants to orchestrate death.
To go out in a blaze.
And then it would fade.
I would fade.
My Spirit called
to join the Forest Gentry.
Finally, fluent in the language
of ferns and fog.
Dissolving into green,
leaving only an echo.
Chestnut Cowboy 