Where do people like us go when November comes? Where do we hide inside ourselves? We have no forest to trail off into to conjure our spells and start fires, beckon the smoke to rise. To dance around those fires like right demons of nature. In my dreams I collect fallen branches and lift grey stones from the ground, carry them to my camp and arrange them in the shape of crosses. I tie dead vines to my hair and paint my face with the juice of autumn berries and crows blood, my eyes black as night. The smell of me and of you is the root of life in those dreams.
Somewhere inside myself I’m a forester. I feel the roots of trees under my skin. The cool November wind is my breath and my energy, my blood flow. I’ve always felt a safety in the forest. The blanket of tree and leaf, the ocean of soil and brush, the echoes that come always from somewhere unknown. Everything comes from beyond the trees, masked yet so resolute. The noises my ears have never heard.
The human in me is not human in my city life. I am kept from being the creature that I am. The November forest waits for me within my soul conjured at birth. The veins of my tree-blood. The skin of leaf and bone of stone and the smoke of inspiration only given to each gust of wind threading its way through the haunting branches to reach my upturned, black eyes.