weave a shirt from nettles

Deep in the night: as if the owl had a bit too much to drink: “woohoo!,” it cried, then hiccupped, “oot. Whew!” Then from the dark sky the great call of geese on the move. Trees tinged, air nippy. I feel undomesticated, unmoored, half wild, half of me; the other half seeking shelter. In my head I am digging a deep hold, mole-like, My body though sways in the breezes, eyes on the sky. Is everyone so divided? Or am I bewitched by the seasons, in thrall to shifts and change? The garden is blowsy with spent blooms and nodding asters, the last bees butt-up in the zinnias. I am called. I am humming loudly to drown out the call. I may burn down the house. I may never open the door. Who knows? I was moved by this poem by Erin Coughlin Hollowell from a recent issue of West Trestle Review, its longing and strangeness and the tugging threads of old connections. https://www.westtrestlereview.com/fall_2026_erin_coughlin_hollowell.html Cosmognosis Erin Coughlin Hollowell Splinter in the deep meat…