Monday, October 24, 2016

it's hard to say

in the woods
the owls are preaching
but what religion
I can't say
as for the deer
they form garden ornaments
lost under the helicoptering leaves

parchments of bark
are read by a squirrel
mounting the horse of the birch trunk
it's hard to say
what the book of life is about
when I travel
I lose cells     like worry beads
falling from a broken necklace


I have made a place
where I can fit snug
like a head in a cap
where I am able to shut out the noise
of the ache in the living
it's easy enough       you fly over
the war zone     and pretend
this is all a movie you tell yourself   that will end soon enough

in the woods
there are asking voices
that tell me stories
I listen to the woody stems of weeds
the carcasses of birds
the small bones of their memories
you can find me by the river counting rose hips

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