Woodland Poems



How silent the wood seems without
my footsteps; with glance I may hear,
revel in a crunch
not mine.

Crows cough out lessons
I have never bothered
to know, and, one wonders,

if I could have.

Dear Legs

When I run

I must be present.

Everything is jagged and learned
in ways I sense I can not fathom.
Trip me up
the green

if I am not careful.
And minding my own

deer legs.


There it is!

Your bountiful nest!
Your abode of knickknacks and
memories. Your thievery.

Chitchat is best
amongst nice things;

I do suppose,
Oscar Wilde would approve.


It feels like quiet, but it is not.
I am just so loud and swathed in noise
that the forest seems


But it is not.

It is not, because to a fox, to an elk,
only death

is quiet.

To those ears,
and to those eyes,

all the woodland is singing.

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