Avocado fruits ripen, buttery fleshed, to a golden-green; wild, in the avian cloud forest.
Nectandra. Ocotea. Words, like stones, drop through leaves; to rest, in the cloud forest.
The “Feathered Serpent”, Resplendent Quetzal, a planter of trees, a sower of seeds
is a hollower of soft wood at the dying heart; the heart has a nest, in the cloud forest.
Malachite and Azurite, Earth and Ocean-blue stones, are living in the Quetzal’s plumes.
There is, in a song like sadness, the sweetness of a gauzy moon— in the cloud forest.
ever and ever is the saw’s scrape. Mineral windows deeply veined, the rocks quake.
Overlighting tree-made mist tumbles up, apricot; a dense wind covers the cloud forest.
The boy reading in his room; limbs that outpaced his heart; and the one born “too soon”:
an azure sheen flashes on their blueblack heads, as they bend to see, in the cloud forest.
ALISON ARMSTRONG-WEBBER is a writer and a visual artist, who lives at the edge of Forest Hill Village, in Ontario, Canada. Her chapbook, A Beautiful Place, That You Will Leave is forthcoming, from Dancing Girl Press. She fell in love with the Ghazal when she realized it might prove to be the perfect vessel to contain her run-on lines; in her hands the ghazal is somewhere between an alchemical flask -with little shell ears- and a cracked and languorous, unwaxed amphora.