The Dark Forest: Literature, Philosophy, and Digital Arts
She used to gather the bark and leaves in fall,
after summer’s roaming and philandering;
she’d boil it all down to nothing but an extract,
an ugly mess of oil, thick and gluey, pale yellow;
but I can attest to those times when she’d heat
it up and press it and rub it on my bruises,
my young bones and swelling muscles,
it felt like heaven in a sudden prayer of light.
I’d follow her at times see where she went
(being a native woman she knew things);
down around the deep piney where a cluster
of trees they called Witch Hazel sat in a circle;
she’d talk to the plant as if it were alive,
ask it how it was doing, and that it was so kind
she was giving us a helping hand for the year;
she’d bless that tree and its neighbors, sing
to the world…
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Viv Drewa - The Owl Lady 