The Cliffs Above Oswald
New fronds unfurl from the joints of older ones, like fists slow to open in forgiveness but will inevitably in forgetfulness—that kind of newness green as the green of new ferns snaking fast up the old hosts’ throats turning brown beneath the ever-creep without a sound (to us— all we hear’s waves). The waist-high bramble we’re wading through, the thorn sea that has swallowed us—with its endless view of day's end/night's beginning—seems to seal up behind us as we struggle by.
From The Mystery of the Hidden Driveway (Bloof Books, 2010). Copyright © 2010 by Jennifer L. Knox.