we enter the forest
past Colliers Mills
as though it were a house
abandoned long before
each clearing, a new room
in a living mansion
the trunks of trees swell
and feel ancient
I sit up against one,
calling it my bedroom
I intend to stay forever—
we could be hermits
...
we wade in tall grass
bright young green
it smells fresh and warm
rises to our fingertips
when we emerge at last
on the path worn flat
we notice scores of ticks
climbing our legs,
brush them off in panic,
and never return
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
we enter the forest
past Colliers Mills
as though it were a house
abandoned long before
each clearing, a new room
in a living mansion
the trunks of trees swell
and feel ancient
I sit up against one,
calling it my bedroom
I intend to stay forever—
we could be hermits
...
we wade in tall grass
bright young green
it smells fresh and warm
rises to our fingertips
when we emerge at last
on the path worn flat
we notice scores of ticks
climbing our legs,
brush them off in panic,
and never return
