In the style of Leaves of Grass: Song of myself

[1]

The woods are about me… leaning in,

And although you may think that they are simply trees,

Every branch is alive within its own small universe of small shifting changes... the order of

branch and bark,

Ripples of wind and splashes of sunlight… a peace of placement.

I am content here... the standing specimens of ancient forests, long undone,

I can feel the small changes, the quiet murmur… they have their own stories,

I cannot know the words, but the meaning is true enough… the forest waits.

I sit on a log, the bark melting, molten drips dropping… splashes of dirt,

I cannot feel angry in a place like this, so many small nothings cloud my emotions,

I am finally now.

[2]

The wind rustles through the trees, a soft touch, sprinkling refreshment,

It feels out the lengths of the limbs, knows the texture and weight… the movement of growth.

As the trees and the wind pass, some army of pens rush by,

Orange streaks fall… clumped into packages, brush strokes condensed,

Fine lines cut through the air and fall… they litter the ground, crushing.

The wind carries some farther than the rest… it must find some amusement in sending themwhirling about through the air.

Their path seems random, the only trend downwards… the wind distracted, a small mossy stone

Has the wind a preference for where it wanders?

Has it any purpose other than to flicker by?

Has it always known the means of fluttering butterflies along?

Has the fanning of flames ever brought it distress?

For this forest has known flames… red rushing tides of death.

They creep from the smallest spark… following the dry and decayed… until it finds new

growth… saturated with sap and life,

But it has already consumed the dead… and life cannot phase it

It brings a terrible heat… the dormant energies of bark, soon dirt

And the sap quickly dries… the wind laughs, feeding the flames… the waves of red crash again.

Maybe the wind hates the trees… roaring hurricanes… sometimes they bring down many trees.

Maybe the wind is on its way to some other greater current,

An updraft that circles up into nothing… disperses into the night.

Maybe the wind is just the trees whispering to each other… sometimes yelling,

And the wind from their words tears down each other.

Maybe this is trying to tell us something,

But we aren’t listening.

[3]

To even question the purposes of a force is meaningless.

Both the smart and simple know it so.

Yet the desire to know pulls out our questions.

However, the wind is neither for or against anything… it simply is,

And any questions we fire at it pass through like a boat in fog… the best we ever see are theoutlines of truths.

But maybe we don’t need to know… or maybe we already know the answer.

Perhaps it is better to question what we can easily see… the wind is only observed throughshifting trees and hair in disarray.

I look around through the forest… there are many small pockets of life,

Far better to inspect them than question the ocean of the sky.

Close by there is a spiders web… glittering silk,

The spider is out of sight….the flies are safe,

But the dew has found a place to stay… hanging,

And when the frost comes, the web will catch all the snowflakes.

The web is truly a thing of wonder… a pattern often repeated,

Strung between branches, thin lines of rope.

There are many lines here, a forest of straightness and distinctness.

There is a straightness to the trees, standing up out of the curving ground.

There are lines between the trees… they grow closer….I can follow them to a distinct point.

The ground is littered with the orange brush strokes, so many lines that they form waves,

The leaves, the ones with outlines for catching the sun, have veins that branch off like their trees,

The sun itself, passing through the air… suspended particles….its rays run straight down toearth,

The edge of the clouds, cutting across the sun… they pass in front so fast, the boundary passes

the spider's trap, before a glittering home now reveals itself,

In the linear path, straight up and down it runs...and the ground curves it all the way around the

pond.

Can not any landscape be reduced to lines?

Can not those lines also be curved, as the world itself curves?

I do not know, but I see the linear in nature… geometry escapes from the pages,

And seeps out into the horizon line.

But maybe it is the reverse… the pages only record what was already there.

[4]

The tiny ant wanders by… it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere in particular, and yet its pathnever comes to an end.

The bird flies by, dipping down… the branches rush up to meet it, and its flight comes to an end.

The water sparkles far off, the sun bouncing back after falling from so high… and then a cloudpasses by, and the light show comes to an end.

The day is new, the sun high, the smells fresh and the woods alive… but winter, nighttime of theforest, comes soon, and so this all will end.

There is much to enjoy in this place… the leaves and needles fall around me,

The song of birds, oscillating and shifting as one starts and another stops… this musicinfrequently finds me.

I cannot say how long I have spend here, for time passes strangely here… and the shadowsdeceive me.

While in these woods, I have spend time pondering the hidden meanings of the wind… but it hasleft a coldness and a desire for the inside in me.

I wish that these woods would always remain the way they are… so much so at peace,

But I can feel the shifting of the colors… winter steadily approaches.

I wish that I could stay here, sit and think and feel the wind,

But I cannot ignore the cold and coming night.

I wish that the songs of the birds would always stay with me,

But they must flee the decay of this place.

I must stay and watch as the forests all around me fall asleep

And become submerged in piles of snow.