Trees that were green
now are brown, yellow, orange.
The grey sky lies
like a depressed woman
on hilltops and in valleys.
Where is hope? Is it
in the red and rashness
of the berries and seeds?
May I touch the fallow land
like a little country boy,
quick and peripatetic,
finding joy under cracked
leaves and limestone rocks,
hazelnuts and hickory?
The raccoon tells the deer,
"Eat the green leaf,
eat the green leaf
before it dies." Skies are grey;
trees huddle. A forest
is a place for rest.
I lie with the lizard.
I fly with the hawk.
I eat red berries.
I lap the water
that flows between
oak and walnut trees.
The white of winter comes:
I enter my heart
with the brown bear
to keep me warm.