sugar thorns

the trunks of the trees are blurring into a sea of emerald bark the longer i peer into the depths of the forest. the field runs wide and green, spanning the weak distance between the copses of trees.
dead leaves are limp under my feet, crushed into silence and fossilizing with the hard, flat packed earth. the trunks of the younger trees are clean and the color of weak tea, the older trees wear venerable robes of moss with pride, enhancing their craggy profiles with an air of wisdom and secrecy.

it is useless to dig or cultivate anything in this soil. i want to be able to dig into the welcoming dirt and hold the rich and heavy proof in my hands. warm black dirt to etch the creases where i bend.

this dirt has been tamped into an ageless path. if i tried to scoop up a handful, my nails would break. the rocks are incorporated with the smooth flow of the muddy path and to dig them out and toss them aside only create pockmarks. tiny pockmarks that will erode and grow with each rain. corrupting the path into a twisted maw. dry roots wail in the wind, their fingers are returning to dust.

each footfall will take soil and leave less behind.