Grinding Apart

Grinding Apart

I was lost without words, wind, or plans. All I had were charts and a map of a city.

I’d seen the dead and learned the violence of imagined prophets. Few emerged from their madness to wake in the future, yet I found my way.

I recalled desires, mutinous memories of affections I’d stolen.

I looked away as a feeling cleaved through the ugliness of grinding apart.

I tried to fight and broke down, leaving only lessons and a chain of nervous thoughts.

All shape and color flew away. Half-dreams shouted, “Out this way!”

Instead, I shut my mouth for a thousand years.

I denied them as I denied myself for I could not speak above all I thought I was.

©️ JM Tiffany

The White Hart

…In those days she resembled a white hart, pallid as bone, with eyes like glowing emeralds.

A ghost, some said, and certainly fay, but few were they that ever knew the truth of what she was. Most took her for a stag. But what they saw as antlers, broad and proud, were, in truth, branches.

Though rare, sightings of her sprouted like pokeweed in Autumn, when the trees made their fiery bed upon the forest floor.

Occasionally, brave warriors hunted her. Most came back, sullen and silent, a faraway cast to their eyes. Those that spoke told stories, and none were true, though true enough for men. Of course, she never doubted her own existence, and the stories that she told to a handful of stalkers ruined their hearts for all time. When the snows came, she was invisible, a niveous form, lithe and graceful, that melted into the frozen world. And, when her buds joined at last in Spring’s green fury, she would again become invisible, slipping softly away into Summer’s viridescent heat. It was in the times between when she felt naked and vulnerable, yet she loved the bright cool sadness of Fall Only then did she fear, and the sound of horns over horses and dogs drove her deep into the heart of the woods. But she was wise, and even brilliant men are utterly dim that cannot see magic in the weave of things. Cunning and fleet, no arrow had grazed her, nor trap was laid that had not been plainly seen. For her, it was always better (and safer) to remain hidden. Whenever some bold fool, arrow knocked, and string drawn, spotted her, they shouted in rage and mourned arrows lost in vain pursuit. In the towns, their tales became songs. They joined in a chorus about how she was slain by this man or that on such-and-such a day. To save reputations and doubt spare one’s skill, the hunter’s kill, it was spun, was tragically taken by some legendary highwayman or dour wolf. These stories made her laugh for there is freedom in death, especially when one yet breathes. It amused her that no one knew her name. Those who told stories were branded  liars or madmen, but that never stopped their tongues from wagging. So rarely do men see what’s before them, and what is seen is often just themselves. These humans, she thought, would march off a cliff if they thought it would make them famous. The sane, she learned, are happy to dismiss the truth if it preserves their comfort. And that was how she liked it: safely hidden in the shadows of their denial, alone and free in the wildest places, a soul as old as the world was young.

© JM Tiffany

The Value of Tears

Some weep at the sight of beauty. Some mourn for the fallen dead. Some sob at the pain of rejection. Some sorrow over their own suffering. Some wail at the misery of the world. Some lament what deeds they have done. Some grieve for what is yet unfinished. And some there are that cry not at all. I do not wish to be the latter for they that do not weep are ghosts in a dead world. The Earth is a desert without tears. Nothing grows that does not drink from the Heart.

©️ JM Tiffany

Obsidian Butterfly

I have this recurring dream in which you transform into a swarm of black butterflies.

In a chaos of dark velvet you suddenly disappear.

I tell myself that I don’t believe in signs and portents, but it fills me with dread.

I want to disappear with you. I don’t want to fly alone. I want to blend with you until only our softness stirs the air.

I flutter my lashes against your cheek and whisper wishes in your ear.

You giggle and spread your wings.

©️ JM Tiffany

November is Winter half-dressed and leaning seductively on October’s tomb.

©️ JM Tiffany

Strings

Ivy and hornbeam the color of honey join the new ghosts of Autumn’s world.

I feel the Sun’s fire on the great pines, as long shadows poke boney fingers through the briarwood.

Crows call in the forest as above the wooded hills of burning orange oaks a sweeping Hawk hunts.

I follow a lone Stag down a trail known only to beasts through a bright sea of amber leaves.

I feel the wildness of hardwood around me, and of balsam firs in the biting cold.

I lift a fallen feather and hold it to the Sun, now a hot coal searing into the West.

Bound by strings of spirit to bone, I would sink with it, through reeds and tall grass, to dream of you.

© JM Tiffany