after the rain.

This is a beautiful poem that really brings to life the quiet energy of the forest. The atmosphere created is amazing, one can feel the overwhelming presence of nature. I especially like how the tents, being man-made, are weak and feeble under the influence of rain. Great poem.

Roon has already picked out the errors, so can I mention the good things? One word, beautiful. You're strong and independent in your work. It shows just how awesome you are. Keep it up.

Roon here! I’m so happy to be reviewing this, it’s wonderful! I’ll start with nitpicks first though:

false rain from the upper branches, tittering << I like the idea of raindrops laughing, very original. Capitals when starting sentences.
on the leaves of the canopy << the leaves are the canopy.
and the pale underbelly of the fog, scooping inland, hanging its
head low, it listens to our conversations, discreet << I think you should say a discreet
informant among the treetops.

wet moss hangs in stringy green druid beards
and the trees robe themselves in the pale, tongueless mist
as little noses of lichen spring up, clutching like lockets.
we hunt among the tomahawks of fungus, steppingstones, eager and moist
as whetted lips, and the fiddling ferns tuck their chins,
offering little pale petals of dew. << so artistic, this whole stanza!

the tents sag like lungs, poles and stakes bending inward, << sag like lungs? I think you could think of a better image to use here.
a collapse, shrinking under the old rain. among the reeds and trees,
they are ridiculous. they are swollen and yellow as bellyaches.
we pack them up slowly,
slick-skinned, bat-winged,
sodden purses.

great, moss-backed and fallen trees stretching down the gullet of the valley
of ferns and eavesdropping clover. as father stirs the wet ash
in the firepit, we walk these fallen
obelisks of a dead and rotting time. they slumber and ponder, << I love this bit!
their thoughts rising and black in the mist; pygmies
that turn out to be stumps upon further exploration, heavy with fungus
waiting and deigning like footmen.

the silence presses its firm thumb over the woods
and the rain pulls itself away, a few last drops
tripping over the leaves, beading, fleeing,
as we pack up, woodsmoke lingering as the
stellar's jays regard us,
mohawked blue.