Forest

 

Still the aftermath

Trees reach tall and wide, like We-

That is All-she wrote.

Painting by George Hayter (1792-1871), 'After the Storm' c. 1833 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

If I was there (as pictured)

You

can see

The Forest

                                                                                                                        Over there-

Hills bent like knees, folded and prickled with trees, textured tones of green shadowed by their own darkness unseen. Lush in mossy folds of exploding ripe oxygen with spores sparking their sperm of wild plumage fans its layered feathers blurred in flight, this sight you can see-

Wherein,

          fawn and stag trample broken arms under hoof…a trail, a scent, a nymph of notion. (Not I)

                                                                                    Smoke of an obscured roof floats billowing

a periwinkle blanket of Big open skies under Venus’ belt, who tucks in the sprawling landscape-or tries. Soaring in sacred circles on the crown of canopy raptors released, flying cage free.

Blurs of sweeping leaves, fingertips brushing the panoramic pastels, strokes of infinite-wait-

What-

Was

That sound-                                                                                                 Did you hear?

Just a raccoon, bat, owl, opossum, puma or deer…falling down-playing dead, maybe.

Things echo in cathedrals.

Sounds are carried, strung together in symbols, the pin drops but the sewers eyes are sewn shut.

Fears flourishing outlined with dread.

Can you see? Inside, where the trees hide and words disappear-I cannot see, I was not here.

Image by Anna Ramsburg, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service via Wikimedia Commons, (public domain).