In the falling deer’s mouth by Helen Calcutt

There was an axe, and it buried the tree.
A footprint like God entered the blank space.

Every creaking sound was a leaking of butterflies
ring by ring, surfacing the wound. Yellow, spirit like.

A cry has taken refuge in the rock. Even now it tries
like an ache to forget itself, and be silent. Absolutely.

Where the echo runs, a lighthouse of birdsong
collapses.

spirit_of_the_forest

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