My Friend, Brigit
In me there is a tried and true reflection of the Green
the black, the forest, the damp leaves and the rain in winter.
Everyday in the evening, when the dawn breaks-
I walk the animal trails to see who came at night,
in the dark to eat the corn, the moss, the grass.
A stag and three does come every Thursday.
I leave carrots, and bones, and roots, and acorns-
at dusk- in the morning, forage the wild boars
mother and her newborns, with large bullish horns-
under the old oaks, abundant in thorn, and ash.
I had a dream I sat beneath the moon-tide at noon
and Brigit, my bright friend, again was near and dear-
We grew up like sisters and parted as such too soon.
I see her now once a week; Aye, see and hear how to
Know if one's weak know and if one's strong
and now how to write one's wronged wrong.
Send her a message: Ev re:one needs a better,
half recalled.
A friend in deed, she comes to console:
A shoulder to laugh on, a story already told.
Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2014
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