Interwoven

By Jenny Ward Angyal | Gibsonville, North Carolina, USA

limbertwig—
the mockingbird’s nest
threaded with sunlight

If I stand long enough in tree pose in the dappled shade of the apple orchard, maybe lichens will find me, too. Maybe fungal spores will drift from the tree trunks, settle on my skin, post personal ads—Wanted: algal partner for photosynthesis and mutual support. Or maybe they will arrive already partnered—tiny powdery propagules like fairy dust, ready to settle and grow . . . one millimeter per year. 

Perhaps in time I, too, will become gray-green and hoary, bearded and bristling with leathery lobes, chrome yellow speckles, splotches of whitewash. Each one a testimonial to partnership, and none doing me any harm. It’s nothing new, really. Even now, more than half “my” cells aren’t human—they’re microbes, happily dwelling in every nook and cranny of this body, keeping healthy the whole bustling, blooming community that I’m pleased to call “me.”

wind-blown
spider’s silk 
unraveling 
the self

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This piece has been published as part of the collection, Clouds in Paper.

Cover Image by Snejina Nikolova via Unsplash