Hidden in a forest, a house surrounded by trees. The traffic was sparse, the silence was deafening, the environment was so ominous, so frightening, it was easy to feel so lost in the looming trees. Across the house appeared three street lamps which dimly illuminated the street, shedding light on each crack on the sidewalk, each crushed can laying on the ground, it captured the areas that tried to hide from the naked eye.

I scratched my elbows as I entered the old front gate, which creaked as it opened. I wandered aimlessly around the garden as lonely as a cloud, searching for something that didn’t want to be found. The solid brick walls, the magnificent arched window, the windowsills which longed to be touched by the light. I passed by the wilted plants which were hidden behind the majestic tree in the garden, yet the soil remained dry, dehydrated, almost incapable of facilitating life.

Finally, I found myself facing the front door, which read 2610. I clasped the doorknob and twisted, the door opened wide, already unlocked.  Suddenly, I found myself walking through the hallway towards the kitchen as I stared at the wooden floor, filled with organized patterns and intricate designs, something so beautiful which I never had the time to admire. The kitchen was spotless, with the exception of a few pieces of cutlery scattered across the table. Adjacent to the kitchen was the bathroom, I entered the small room, the lights were dim, the windows were foggy. A draft of cool air from the window went down my back, I laid my hand on the cold faucet handle and twisted it, water flowed out of the spout, and I cupped my hands, creating a small pool of water. I raised my hands to my face as I splashed the water against my forehead, attempting to clear my mind of the memories flooding back, memories which I didn’t want, didn’t need, and when I looked up towards the mirror, nothing looked back.

Eventually, I made my way to the stairs, the soft carpet cushioned my feet as I walked, the sense of support comforted me. The stairs led me towards the long foreboding hallway, the lights slowly dimmed, the photos on the wall followed me as I walked past them. At the end of the hallway, I found a boy seated by his bedside, his elbows dry, his eyes-wide, he hugged his knees as he cradled himself back and forth. I couldn’t help but notice the poorly weaved basket in the corner of the room, in between the holes of the basket sat a small stuffed panther, it looked like a panther behind iron bars. I returned my gaze to the child, he sat there helpless, and in my vision, I saw the trees slowly engulf him, leaving him in nothing but solitude, his cries left unheard, his hands left untouched, his tears left unwiped. He existed in a prison with no walls, a prison of the mind, for he was lost in the trees.

There is a tree behind my neighbor’s house that I can see from my yard.
The leaves are amber from autumn into early winter.
When it’s windy, they fly off in a flurry, the tree’s narrow trunk bowing under Mother Nature’s weight.

Weaker trees around it fall. The tree in question does not.

I watch in awe, every year, as the leaves yellow and brown and eventually fall from the tree’s boughs.
It’s a pity, sure, but I am content that for a few months, I get to watch them grow and evolve.

Today, the leaves’ golden hue peeks at me through a kitchen window.

The branches are leaning over, war-torn by days of storms, reaching toward the earth.
The distance between the leaves and the ground is ever-shrinking, a point approaching zero but never quite reaching it.

In a few months, the tree will be barren. Its fallen leaves will decompose.

They will never meet the new generations of leaves that come each spring.
They will never bear witness to the metamorphosis of their former home, to the growth and change it will undergo in the years to come.
They will never see their stronghold eventually splinter and collapse under the weight of Mother Nature’s force and fury,
becoming one with the earth toward which it was so desperately reaching.

I wonder what it's like to be the one left behind by change.

I’ve always believed it a privilege to be allowed close enough to witness another’s development,
To be along for the journey as they shift from one version of themself to the next.
But this, I realize, is a privilege that I cannot even afford myself.

There are pieces of me that will never see the changes next fall will bring my neighbor’s tree.
There are pieces of my neighbor’s tree that will never see the changes next fall will bring me.
Parts of me will die before other parts are born; it is a fact that simultaneously troubles and comforts me.

Perhaps you, Reader, will never meet the newest versions of me.
But then again, neither will I.

sometimes i think they sap the love and happiness from me
but that is okay
i can always produce more
that is my purpose

i do think they prune me of what need not be there, though
that's useful to me
i'm scared of vine overgrowth
my roots stay in place

as the trees go through their annual metamorphosis,
I form another internal skin,
purging my existence of every trace of you that i can
and just like the skin of the trees,
i will make sure he
leaves.

Those sunrises which came so slowly in the winter
made me want to believe in God again.
The pink tinge of the sky and
the once green grass now covered
in silky snow, which would soon melt away,
made me want to believe in God again.

The whole beauty and synchrony
of the world coming together in nature
finally made me believe in God again.

I found prayer, not in a church,
but among the trees
and teeming rivers
and hidden lakes.
They gave me faith in the
natural way of things,
in something greater,
stronger, more pure
than anything I'd ever known.

Ancient forests
started on October 9th, 2020
revised on November 30th, 2020

Translation of a Chinese poem by **** Wei:
"I know no good way
to live and I can't
stop getting lost in my
thoughts, my ancient forests."

I think getting lost
in ancient forests
sounds lovely.

I get lost in my head
in old familiar battlefields
and imagined future apocalypses.

But an ancient forest
with cool, shaded layers of trees
doesn't sound so bad

I guess it is the lost part
that is the problem.
Maybe the ancient forests
wouldn't be so bad
if the poet knew where he was.

Feet touching the earth
anchoring this self
to this exact spot
the soul a beacon
to the world's gps system.

I am here.

I am not lost.

I am.

beyond the sponge
and spoilings that form my bulk
meat heart beats
but it's not the boast of me
it has tree like dispassion

but then, conflict... 14th / Sept / 2020 / Elsons Crag

The Forest firs sway. The trees bend at the top like sea grass with the tide. Cloud movement strobes sun over this carpet. I view from a cliff.
It stirs rare warmth in my heart half

No !

React under attack. the heart throws up monsters and little stickmen waving spears. violent breathing and horrid garbage and gore and villainous words turned inward and folded and pounded and dough and hurt..

i've turned from the beauty and crouch in a revulsion of balance

this foreign glow cannot be simply experienced. to me, a warm heart is one in need of defence ...as is one in mourning

Thousands.

A fable of freedom and loss is the story that has been told a thousand times. But is that to say that the same words passed between a thousand men a thousand times over a thousand years are worth a thousand times less?

That the meaning is a thousand times lost?
Barely whispers on an open stage.

That if a thousand by a thousand men plant a thousand trees in a thousand meadows the earth would be a thousand by a thousand trees richer, but if a single man were to plant a thousand trees in a thousand meadows the earth would be a one man poorer.

Freedom was a man who never knew his name, he was the man who's story was told over those thousand years and he is the man who is making the earth a thousand by a thousand trees richer.