Touching Wood
This is not the place I thought it was
coming here in disposable form
impressionable as wet cement
programed for success and failure
in equal parts
whatever fills the void
I am disposed to the river
when big rain sends it tumbling
in interlocking braids
but instead
turning to the trees I ask for help
attracted by their elevator dreams
their quiet stalwart presence
the way they stare me down
and hold the land together
I came here to learn
not from those like me
with no dirt between their toes
but from spirits of the earth and sky
gifting me with breath itself
bringing me into their silent fold
touching wood
Poem by Austin Metze
Austin Metze is a poet, essayist, painter, and book designer. His work has been published in Weeklings Literary Journal, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, and Multiplicity: a nonfiction literary blog. He has self-published three chapbooks: Crow’s Blood, Hudson Street, and I Tried To Show My Dog The Stars, as well as a book of essays and poetry, When Life Calls You Out, It’s Usually Onto A Highway. He currently resides on Hornby Island, B.C. Canada