…
When You’re Lost In The Woods Every Place
When you’re lost in the woods every place
becomes a path. Rain especially will
come pour on the mountain ripping a place
for a gully all the way down the hill
resembling footfalls not raindrops although
this is a path the rain has swept—I take
a step and then take two then know and go
in the right direction—No, my mistake.
The ground’s become full of twigs and acorns
map of dead things and things about to live
familiar as anything. Let me think.
“Which way should I go?” My writing shadow
is dark as ink on the acorns and twigs.
I don’t know where I am. I’m everything.
My Mouth Is As Slimy As A Warm Snail
My mouth is as slimy as a warm snail.
Walking down the mountain navigating
sharp rocks and the loose snapping sticks lying
in wait to strike at my legs on the trail.
All that is wet is oozing out of me
perspiration soaking my clothes and skin
my face a place where hangers-on can cling,
part of a spider’s web, dead moth, a leaf.
Kneeling at the spring, I lower my hand
and bring a palm of it up to my mouth
gulp, dip and gulp until I’ve had enough
and splash myself as the stinging deer and
green flies settled drinking my drying sweat
fly off again. The end of thirst is rest.
This Fallen Tree Was Never Here Before
This fallen tree was never here before
but maybe I’m the one who’s never been
here before. Where am I? I know I am
near the spring and will soon find it over
there or maybe behind those trees. But first
I’ll sit. I’d be twenty feet off the ground
if this tree were still standing. It fell down
splitting the forest floor leaving a birch
untouched whose unscarred bark I want to chew
on and get up, tearing off a leaf, some
of the stem. Lucky tree, you taste so good
Mmmm I could stay awhile enjoying you
but I can also walk with you and savor
and when I get to the spring, I’ll rest there.
There Is A Lot Of Wind In The Mountain
There is a lot of wind in the mountain.
There happens to be some chimes as well.
The wind has many throats; this little bell
is made of metal; the chimes are wooden
pieces sawed and painted wearing away
telling the wind’s story in a hurry
like snakes make a ruckus over the leaves
down the rocks to the valley far away.
“It is happening! It is happening!”
The bell rings as the rain starts to pitter
patter on the trees making me shiver
holding my notebook close as I’m running
page after page for a time hid away
waiting like the chimes for something to say.
