Ah, yes. Here on the first day of April, I spent the day with eight-year-olds, and am soon off to another birthday celebration with Grandma. Ah, the life of the Fool–planning it ALL in there, even if it seems impossible.
Begin your road at the ending,
as the last pathway rounds the bend.
Dance to the lip of the chasm–
place your foot upon a bridge of rainbow.
Keep your eyes upon the distant wood,
your ears tuned to the song of undine and dryad.
Remember, your road is a circle,
and everywhere you are is the start of your journey.
Your road is of water, of vision, of air,
of heartbeat, illusion, and wisdom
a pathway of fire and smoke.
Feel how the sky under your feet holds you up,
how the earth at your back is made only of dreams,
how the only way forward is light and color,
how a distant harping draws you onward.
Tomorrow’s Prompt: Let’s just keep going down the Fool’s Road, shall we? After she embarks on her Rainbow Road, the Fool enters the Enchanted Wood, where she meets a complex cast of characters, meets a variety of challenges, and develops her skills and knowledge. Today, let’s take her Into The Woods. Take a fairy tale turn or a psychological turn. Be whimsical or wise–or both: that’s the Fool for you. My April 2 poem goes Into The Woods.
Gratitude List:
1. The world of the Fool. Stepping off the edge of the chasm into the void. Trusting the bridge.
2. The energy of eight-year-olds. Fun, playful, eager.
3. Moss and ferns in the woods. Green, green moss.
4. The play of sun through clouds.
5. Pink trees
May we walk in Beauty!
Mockingbird Chronicles 
Into the Forest
It’s a new forest for me now
Because
We moved
My god have you stood in your home
Have you emptied your home,
The last hints in ribbons
Everything tattered. Dust,
And the books are
Everywhere.
It’s heavy to move
My new house is stone and it’s old and
Even venerable, charming
The walls in the kitchen are yellow
And I live in the edge of a small wood
On the side of a great hill. The well
Is stained red with iron
And the water is sulphurous
And unfamiliar
I do not mourn
Because my attention has been
Caught up in in the forest
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The sense of color, of decay, of determination to live on. “And the books are everywhere.” Thanks for this one.
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Woods
When I enter,
the grain of years
spreads over seasons.
I am maple, escalating slick sap
up sticky limbs to lift dripping
wisdom into a thicket
of sweet.
I am sycamore, rivered into riveted,
spotted synchrony, shades
of shadow before shadow
exists at noon, stark disparity
with parity, no absolute
intelligence telling
any sense of sanity.
I am oak, oh lone holder
of the root, cuddled
up to the cap of last year’s
acorn, slipping down
the frozen hood
to allow for
sprout.
I am sassafras, lending
limbs to tonic, crisp
resilience rendered
gentle into sips
of frisk.
I am apple, star-seed
scattered in perpetual
pardon, blistered
blossom twisting
myth into mad
wishing.
I am locust, burning,
burning, holding the heat
of the thorn in the pierce
of the ash
and the aggregate.
What will ring my rage
when I am within
the wood
and without
the bark or the battle
of bite? What will chew
my renewal till another story
thickens my trunk
and threatens my circles
of trust? Trust this:
I am seasoned.
Each ring reaches deep
into flesh upon flesh,
my own, mine to give
mine to freely reason
with shattered
sensibilities
shedding choice as if it will fall
and spring forth, as if summering
will snow, as if these circles,
wider or slimmer,
will essentially story,
will actually
remember.
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Oh yes! This one, each one a different friend, a familiar body.
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