The Forest
And what do I write about tonight?
Shall I write you? Shall I write to you? Shall I write about you?
How shall I write you?

I try to confine you within these spindly, hesitant letters.
But words never were your prison.

And so, you waft through this lazy summer night, on the back of a crumbling leaf.

You whisper your secrets to the wind, and they blow across the grassland like a thousand florets of dandelions.

Your laughter skips along with the water striders treading the moss green waters of the pond.

You lean back against a damp trunk and stare at the stars.
Somewhere, maybe, a cloud of fireflies takes wing.

You lower your eyes and watch the tempestuous dance of lightning across the water.
The water flashes silver and the sky churns a deep violet.

You dive right into the storm, the wind cutting a pathway open for you.


The forest becomes you and you become the forest