Words are woods, I go
   to, in search of solace

   It is there, in artificial
   darkness, I find light

   Every leaf, a letter, part
   of a deciduous anagram

   Bird songs are echoes
   in coded metaphors

   Clouds are blank
   sky pages, to be writ

   Fungi and pine cones
   are punctuation marks

   Tree trunks are in rows
   and rows of poetic prose

   Even if lost, I always find my
   way out, of the Black Forest.