I.
The seeds of Birch trees paraglide on translucent wings. The Alder tree always roots by the river bank, and sends its offspring floating downstream. Cherry trees shake their loud and buxom wares to entice the empty stomachs of the birds. A Jay carries five acorns at once. Discharge is bountiful and continuous. Huzzah! Excelsior! Go Lions! A silent, hysterical exaltation and the wind is thick with powder. II. Budding at the feet of her in one likeness, we feed and shelter between the toes of her. Our singular mother. Our grainy faces and brittle limbs, we bend in the wind together, twist to watch our bodies reflected in the groves. Burned land is fertile. We overspill our colony, our mass possession, until we reach the permafrost. A shiver beneath the soil. Our tangled umbilical is sprouting again. We tremble whispering our first name: Aspen, Aspen, Aspen.
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Ailish WoollettAilish Woollett is a young writer based in Manchester, UK. She graduated with a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing from Lancaster University. |