If I could Fly

Hum of the Oaks By Angel Insley I. A wooden space, rising from stalks of grass and the churning of earth compressed. From its carbon structures, life itself calmly floats into the openings of my letters; navigating the cities of my anatomy until consumed by the cavities of my lungs and, exhaled. II. These magnificent maidens of magic and prose, wise as spinsters' recreations of times past, youthful as this galaxy in the sea of vast recycled stardust. They dance having no need for legs, sing without a mouth: a mother to all creatures, but not stooped.