To the northeast and beyond
On the very edges of the glistening shores
A shattered forest of stump and splinter
Cracked and smoldering, as if for all time
Yet that disastrous event which stripped the land
Has yet to ever occur


There is no record of wildfire
No meteor shower from the summer night sky
No overturned lantern or lightning strike
Nothing has ever happened here
For as long as things have been recorded
And our generations have run


But still the forest smokes
The ground tucked in below a blanket of ash
The few remaining trees are sickly and charred
Yet never do they fall or die
And never do new trees sprout
Despite the fertile ground rich in minerals


No it was not long ago
That the forest burned and the earth was scarred
Nor was it recently so
We know truly that it was ages from now
In an unspeakable sector of posterity
A forgotten year that is yet to be


In the far distant future this forest burns
And the land is laid bare before us
The event echoes back to us
A warning a premonition
Of dread and fearful things to come
But alas it is only a premonition

My forest
written December 28th, 2020

My forest is the 2 trees
outside my front window

the overstory of my forest
is a prickly ball tree
research says
it is a chestnut or sweetgum tree

the overstory is tall and hearty
giving generous shade in the summer
and raining prickly *****
on the yard in the fall

the understory of my forest
is a dogwood
that blooms gloriously each spring
as it reaches from under the prickly ball tree
for the sun it's greedy sibling hogs

there are forests (and poems)
much more expansive than mine
built more complexly
more often talked about
photographed, written about

but this little 2 tree forest
has been my company
for 20 years now

they are my trees (and my words)
and they are precious to me.

I could live off the evergreen on a weak bet
or a whisper in a library that wasn't for me
I'll take off in the dead of night if it needed to be
without shoes or a backpack if it was necessary

the euphoria of the soil beneath my feet
and the sun feeding me all that I need
a place where the fog will never clear
but is never the symbol of gloom

the trees speak to me in code during the day
and let me know if they do make a sound when they fall
if I stay still long enough I too will be the woodlands
and the woodlands will be me

let the mushrooms grow off my back
and the spiders web between my fingers
petrichor the only fragrance I know
as I spit blossoms on the ground

I'll sit in silence and think of it all
for one thing is certain though:
the biophilia will eat you alive
but the exception is just so

Those constellations that reflect,
In the illimitable rainforest, dark and damp,
Are those, if truth be told, galaxies?
Or glass chips embossed in your guise? O! beauty!