Dear _____, Under delicate skeins of sky and verdant sound and leaves rustling, I scribble this message to you from the forest, one woman lying in tall grass, grass which croaks and creeps and clucks while belly-heavy bees drowse drunkenly over pollen.
How strange to reflect upon color and darkness and light here, I and eye no longer amidst urban spectacle, steel and glass and flashing street signals and billboards as omnipresent points of reference. So many greens here�the forest surpasses lacquered Pantone's promise of The Power of Color�green here so unlike, of course/as of yet/the bright toxic green that occasionally tints Strawberry Creek, foaming a quiet carcinogenic terror.
Here, I am still one woman, Asian and young because hello, hello, hello echoes on named paths trampled-upon by years of hiking boots and sneakers, leaves disintegrating underfoot.
Hello, hello, hello.
And yet silence can still exist immeasurably here, decaying among eight girls deep in meditation. I, too restless to keep hand still and pen-less, observe them with their eyes closed, lashes flickering against their cheeks. Chests fall and rise with mediated breathing, all quieter than one man, camera in hand, pant-stomping past.
Filaments of grass stroke arms and legs itchy. Our bodies drip moss softly, feet taking root in damp soil, forest-bedded briefly, hair no longer knotted with anxieties and sorrows and unfulfilled desires.
Later, we'll assume the emperor's new clothes, noise, language, questions, relationships, all our noughts, oughts, shoulds, woulds and maybe, maybe, coulds.
XOXP.
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