To go into this cave
is to go where the dead are.
Things fell in. Through.
Bones. Leaves. Water.
And they
changed. Or
never were.
Encased in stone, or
mocked in stone,
it makes no difference.
They exist, now,
these fixed shapes, so
almost like shapes we know.
We give them names,
tell stories about them,
go away and tell
stories about the stories.
This is how memory forms,
drop by drop.
Inside a leaf you can see the skeleton of a cathedral. Here are the flying buttresses. There, where a bug has gnawed through, is a gargoyle made of air.
The cathedral is filled with dim green light. Inside it stand choirs of cells, pale and worshipful. The sunlight falls into their open mouths. Their song is nourishment. The echoes of the songs of all the leaves float through the forest like a gentle wind. Whenever you breathe, your vocal cords vibrate with that melody, whether you understand it or not.
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