On the path ahead of me lay death. Belly up, frozen in time, in fur soft enough to be curious about; I wonder if its fur is still soft? It shook me, the sight of the vole - the sight of its four little limbs, stuck straight up, pointing on up to the spirit in … Continue reading Life’s partner
writing
What the wind wants
What the wind wants ties me to spirit, brushing past my ears she takes me aside wrapping my shoulders in a shawl, yarn spun with cloud, she cooes towards me "show them", you have something they want." wondering through air, kicking up dirt, I ask the trees for advice what must I do for the … Continue reading What the wind wants
Lingering in snow
A twig fell from the tree shaped like a pen I wrote in the snow drawing lines with my voice the network of roots below the frozen ground mirrored the myriad of crisscross connections above my head disconnecting from the wires that bind us I find myself lingering under the snow drops I stick out … Continue reading Lingering in snow
Made of ink
Writing is in my bones my platelets made of words. I write with the pens that are my fingers waving sigils in the air. I write with the pens that are my fingers; each finger long bones hollowed out the ink flows through inspired by the guidance by the stories my body holds.
Bone writing
Fingers like twisted branches reach for a pen to write about the lines that fold around her gnarled knuckles dry with age from holding onto stories too long her forearms rest heavy on the smooth white pages of bark as she writes her story with ink made of dirt; lines of language.
Angela Mason 