Limestone under moonlight
softens in a forest where
epiphytes drink from the rain as it falls,
every drop a glass
frog’s beating heart in a storm.
Rattle and splatter
onto earth that flows over earth. Water calling out
for help when it needs a place to soak into
and every avenue leads
to the tapir leaving hooftracks
in mud. Perfect spheres
beside an avenue, only
the sun knows why
they are there, what color the spirit inside
them is, whether for the living or
remembrance, but nothing
outpaces the jaguar in the moment it takes
to catch centuries running away.
A village riding waves of grass
readies for the night
with all its doors left open for
stormwater to run laughing over fields
while every sleeper dreams
the same tin roof dream
of drumrolls in the clouds
and a bushmaster draped
on a bough that can’t sleep.
A tree walks on its roots
through the leafworld,
iguanas to the tiger-heron
stretching its neck until the beak points
toward a caiman hiding
to watch for grey thunder to break
from the river. At such times
planets looking down
see themselves on the sweating grasses
when the Earth is on
its knees for a blessing and trees
are all rain come to life
with a fever. There is a sting
beneath each leaf, time spinning inside each
of the spheres that stands
in the forest listening to
centuries pass,
to tides and a headache
washing over sand where sea turtles
lay spherical eggs and reclaim
the dark ocean to swim
their lives back
to beginnings.
.
David Chorlton
.