I wore a dress made of paper
It rustled when I walked. You were the wind
pulling at it, creeping with fingers of cold
trying to get under my skin.
I came dressed in mud, painted obscure as night.
You were the chain that pulled on the light.
I wore birdsong
and dawn was a crown in my hair.
You came with a lawnmower and blade-spread
I took off my skin and wore spirit to escape you
but you stole my skin like I was a selkie
making me feel I could never go home
would always be prisoned with you.
— Why I Left When I Could by Annette Marie Smith
May your wolves walk on the path with you
where you can see them.
May they swirl with mane of mist with leaves
caught twined therein.
May you hear that their wildness calls
that their teeth portend tools
as well as menace
that their howls are not just hunting jargon
but sonnets to the moon. — Annette Marie Smith
Leaves shake like so many chatelaines
while the wind speaks to me in the language of keys
turns the tumbler that holds the spirit lock in place
conjures dancers made of rust and gold
sets them to dance and grace unfolds.
Whither widdershins so bold? — Annette Marie Smith
Your neural connections are trees filled with songbirds.
No wonder you enchant me. Nothing compares
to a walk through your forest with you.
There is every kind of fruit to be found
straying from the beaten path with you
and I just know, with every particle of me,
that there is a forbidden apple
you are just waiting to show to me. — Annette Marie Smith