What We Did

By Patti Trimble
May 1st, 2015

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When our mother began drinking, everything seemed broken. 
Civilization itself seemed a huge mistake, so we took to the hills
were there was no welcome. Under a hundred-year-old oak
whose spiny bower centered on herself, whose trunk remained 
unmoved by tears and rough-barked arm could never 
offer kindness of a human sort, we—strangely—found comfort. 

Girls are an avalanche of their own making, reckless, falling
hastily to woods and field. And afterwards the wild order 
fiercely quiets all distress. So in defeat, we learned to fold 
our legs like fawns within the gold-flushed oats, and like the newt 
beside the spring, to reach one finger then another tentatively 
out to touch the green-damp moss, judiciously, as if unsure 
this Earth would really hold, but wanting still to offer our caress.