Skip navigation

The Knife Connection, by Sara Eastler

Sometimes I forget how the silence filled

the forest like smoke-sprawl,

how the trees leaned across the stream

to listen for the next breathe of news.


It’s hard to say what caught my eye

as I climbed down from the reading tree —

the one I read aloud to because leaves understand

more languages than sunlight and chlorophyll.


Leaf litter divulged a relic it had held for more than a century,

a handmade tool, chipped by hammerstone —

a curved flake of flint, crafted with the care

of a sculptor who needed this creation to survive.


When I held this fragment of the past, rubbed it clean,

it summoned the sinew of deer scraped free from

hide, swaths of white birch sliced flawlessly for seaming.

The knife’s art come to life. The knife’s life as art form.


And just like that leaves clanged as cymbals,

birds resumed their serenades, and the brook began

her chatter because the forest had spoken.

An ordinary doorway had opened like a portal.

Continue Reading

Read More