The woods reveal themselves, and thereby, me.
Each gnarled path, and tangled root, a time
In how it is a life becomes to be;
The bramble and the mess, a paradigm.
I love the crunch, the slippery, the mud;
I love the stinging cold and somber gray.
The signs of fire, and the marks of flood
Display the manner hard day stacks on day.
The woods reveal what cannot quite be said,
Of living times and dying, mixed in one:
The footsteps heard, like echoes of the dead,
The roaring silence, all the courses run.
And I can also hear, within the breeze,
How one day, I’ll be gone, and feed