by R.L.B. Brackett

I was cut down,

Severed

Sawn

Shattered —

Drifting

Aimlessly

Driven

Pressed down beneath the torrent 

Thrown up to the surface

Torn asunder

Wrecked in the violence

Of currents and 

Saturated in saline nightmares.

Or was it all an adventure,

One that was misconstrued 

Misunderstood,

Mistaken?

I was living, green, verdant

I base my assumptions off

Roots grown deep

In fertile soil

Before the axe struck me down.

Was it fate? 

Was my beauty so captivating 

I was wanted for tables and chairs

Practicality

Instead of leafy, poetic repose?

Could they not have found rest

Beneath my dancing bows?

Or was it lightening

Striking its mark that splintered me —

A crash no one heard or cared to discern

In the distance

As I careened toward hard dirt, 

Arid, hungry for the rain,

Gobbling it down as I

Slammed,

Cheek-to-cheek

With the dust from whence I came?

Either way —

I do not remember.

I have floated, adrift,

For eons and days and years —

The darkness of night 

And blinding of noonday

Erasing my memory

Of the cool groves

And shadowed lands

I once inhabited. 

And now, here —

I have come to rest

With other survivors:

Douglas-fir, white birch, and red-cedar,

Stripped,

Surround my carcass.

Perhaps I am not alone

In my pain.

Yet, I lie in solitude. 

Destitute. 

Embittered and forsaken.

We are all alone,

Separate.

And then, there she is —

A girl, a woman, a faerie sprite —

Camera in tow,

Gait easy and gaze focused;

Has she seen me lying here?

She arrives, comes closer,

Gushing 

A torrent of emotion

A wildness in her heart beating fast

As she declares me beautiful —

A miracle,

A fascination,

A work of art:

A love affair

Begins.

She edges closer,

Dancing fingertips over 

These sun-dried bones,

This desert stranded on Pacific-Northwest beach;

She shrieks in pleasure,

Finding peace and comfort

In my myriad scars.

Do they not echo her own?

Her eyes draw tears

At my silent suffering;

There is a pause —

A moment of silence,

Hallowed.

She is praying.

She is praising.

She sees Elohim in me.

She perceives glory in the 

Ghost of me

And I realize —

Perhaps my story 

Continues

Extends

Begins again

Through the eyes of wonder

Through the speechless awe

Of witness:

She sees me

As I see her.

I once was,

I survived

And am

Reborn —

As is she.

As are we.