187: The First Years of My Life

The first years of my life I slept

in a hollow under a curl of ferns

dripping with dew, eating blueberries

straight from the heather with water

trickling out between moss-grown rocks.

One day I built a house

of sticks and stones but found

that neighbours coming by would knock it down

with no regard for the precious cobwebs

that held it up, so I went to their villages

and took their tools and hewed the rocks,

mixed the mortar, built on top

with four squared walls and one flat roof.

A cube, I soon discovered, with no windows.

It stifled.

The floor, I came to realise, was not solid.

Water trickled in from the demolished brook

and rose about my feet. So I tore it down

from the inside out until I stood

under daylight in a pile of rubble overflown

with water.

I left and wandered.

There was a lake and a rock by the lake.

There was a forest of birches and oaks.

There was a mountain afloat in the clouds.

I dipped my toes in stormy water and watched

thunder rage as lightning flashed

in foaming towers that demolished ships

like forgotten ferns.

In time, I returned to the rubble of my cube.

I cleared it. Placed the pieces about the brook

and let it flow in peace while the ferns unfurled.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: All poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been viewed and commented on by our editors. Ultimately, however, we believe that it is the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions made by the editors, and therefore take no responsibility for the final product.