Never freer, than the moving wood on
bitter breeze,

once sweet.

Air, which claimed a forest,
contracts flesh    still.

Only bone
shall run from here;
Blood and guts
surrendered;

Sphallolalia
-left at the edge of day-
in sunlights' slanting strobes.

And there...                         
              always there
                             (stays hidden)              
                  amongst wisps of mist;

Wistful, weary,
supping dew from
far reaching branches.
                                            Feet bare...

Hair tangled
from the escape of night,
in shaded visions.

**Yet,
sometimes,
there is just the
wood & no trees.