By Melissa Jean
I’ve been trying to open the book of the future
and see what its pages hold, but it is sealed shut.
It will not talk. I’ve been trying to find
a crystal ball. Or runes or an oracle, or a cup of tea
with its dregs of leaves arranged just-so.
But all I find is, over and over,
the incomprehensible shudder of wind in branches.
No information; just sensation.
What I find is the Morse code of my own breath;
I try to make words of it. I try
to read the maps of freckles on my own skin.
Today locust pods jangled in the wind like chimes.
Today I crushed juniper berries between my fingernails.
Today a fly landed on pine needles and his eyes
were the most beautiful red and his wings
sparkled like rainbows in the cold sunlight.
He stayed for a long time. I looked deep
into his eyes. He told me nothing.
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Melissa Jean is a mindfulness studies professor, creative writing teacher, and forest therapy guide currently living in Tennessee. Her website is breatheoutside.com.