The Mist Is The Breath

The mist is the breath 
of trees 
speaking to one another 
above my lodge in the autumn. 
I am Kenata, 
the mute and rootless one 
who deciphers dictionaries 
borrowed from those 
who reach up to heaven. 
When I die 
I will be buried 
beneath moss-shawled forests, 
and the cedar root 
will draw me up 
like nourishment to the leaf 
where my breath will mingle 
with the breath of trees. 


3 thoughts on “The Mist Is The Breath

  1. My dream, when I die, is to be buried naked directly in the ground, my body curled comfortably, wrapped close in the arms of mother earth. No formaldehyde, no coffin. No slow dessication in a needlessly comfortable box. Not for me. I want to be packed into the ground, covered and comforted by an earthen blanket. My body will mix and meld and become peat, fertilizer, mulch, a meal. Dust to dust.

    “my breath will mingle with the breath of trees.”


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