Grove hands

It cloaks me sometimes, the dark particles of ether.

A life stream in reverse, doll eyes reflect the world but not within.


The trees whisper my name, leaves touching my fingertips

to call me back from where I am, the sun aiding them with warmth.


The clouds are bright.

I feel the air and hear the movement.

There is so much life around me.


It tinkles like a bell, and when it’s sweet enough,

I can stand.