where the trees are
my home. No walls or
doors/no ceilings or floors. The dirt
between my toes. A scent of pine

dancing under my nose. The wind
blowing my hair. A log for my
chair. The bellowing of the bullfrog. Sedges
and heaths by the bog. The tat-tatting

of the woodpecker. No hat or
coat checkers. No small talk
where men flock to gawk at woman
in pairs. The azure sky and country

air. Woody vines/not long lines
or the weight of a heavy stare. No red satin
dresses. Here you won’t find stresses. The only
thing running is the river. A sliver of paradise

without a price. And the stars don’t sue/just shine
in a paisley-colored sky.