For the Forest

Outside my bedroom window,
through the city’s gray arms,
I watch the forest of my life writhe,
each branch spiny and bristled
like my first kiss or my neighbor’s last breath
each tree strong and tall like
my father’s hands hoisting me into bed
or the smell of true love on my pillow.

Each time I glance away, the forest
grows wider, wilder, more mysterious.
Each time I glance back, the haze
becomes a shawl around the trees’ spines.
Whispers and shouts echo from
the darkening woods: my mother’s
bedtime stories, shadows of
old friends calling me out to play,
sinking back into the thicket.

And just for a moment, before the
concrete reasserts itself,
my life becomes an ecosystem, replete
with microorganisms and
predatory beasts. Entropy.

I grow roots and limbs, shedding seeds
I sprout from the earth where the sun
breaks through; I am golden rays
and long shadowy tendrils;
the echoes and the whispers
are my little window in space and time.

 

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