Burial of My Past Self / The Woods And I

By Alex Crowthers

I can feel my breath, my chest e x p a n d i n g and contracting like the softness of wind that
traces through the rambling ivy I know so well. I’ve fallen in love with the shadows that paint
my skin and mimic my freckles, and suddenly I am blessed by my timbered, towering friends
who shield me from the glowing sun.

I often wish myself a quiet burial within these saplings, they know her from years ago. I’ll loudly
announce “I no longer recognize her”, despite my flesh that remains the same — weathered, but
the same. The woods know her and respect her more than I do.

(I ought to make note of that)

This weathering is comforting evidence: My change doesn’t stray too far from the wood’s. It’s in
the bark that stretches farther, the branches that reach taller, and the roots that dig them-
selves deeper — building networks I could not break down, even if I tried. I look to the woods to
remind myself beauty is never stagnant, no, it plays on a cycle of know-nothings, assimilation,
and a never-final flourishing. We have more in common than I remember, And I know my eyes
are not the only ones that pleaded comfort here,

just for help through to the other side.