The Deed
Taunja Thomson
Clad in colors of twilight
sheen of periwinkle and amethyst
I climb over mud and coarse hills
between glowering jagged pines
and trees bent like old men
shadows behind me
and before me
under a sky full of clouds
wrestling with one another
their centers grey
their edges flushed.
I climb and wave my censer—
a green as high as an olive tree
as deep as an ocean trench
as thick as moss
as old as verdigris
rises
a signal to ravens and wind
and creeping moonflower
to come and settle
inside me.
What have you done,
they say, Woman,
what have you done?
