A Cold Forest Lament

the woods play tricks

and leave the weary

to walk home aching,

tiring with each step,

mired in a vulture’s quiet

boundary and man breaker,

jester and solemn teacher,

the land reflects

the mind of the hunter:

sometimes mad,

but always hungry

Camden, Maine

quilted sky

glittering silently,

winking a thousand times

to the iron visitors

constellation

of houses

are sentries

to the cooing loons

and grunting bullfrogs

by day

the sun-kissed bodies

drift by

in casual boats,

soaking in the trees

and the sea-salt air

harbor chatter

in vacation tongue,

tolerant locals

measure patience

one tourist at a time

Call of the Woods

leaf-lush primal joy,

a magnet,

drawing woodmen

from their galley desks

step

by wide-eyed

step

forest bound

and snug,

wound tight

but natural

in tree cloak

all still

in the magic

of the first light

the world

as we were meant

to see it—

waking, alive,

and ripe

for the taking

Back Roads

the ways we go

will jumble and make no sense

and we’ll yearn

for smooth boulevards

to preen the dream engines

we don’t have time to shine

some of us

can’t avoid back roads

walled with trees

and spiked with odd life

our destination is always

out there, somewhere

just one more turn away

Deerwoods

Silent inviting

a place of bounty

fleeting, springing

with creatures alighting

puzzles of trees

branches and streams

woods of Indian walking dreams

pace in the cold

upwind and still;

waiting for prey

ignoring the chill

there to take

with a hunter’s violence,

a thirst to slake

with hours of silence

Call of the Woodsmen

Leaf-lush

primal joy,

a magnet

drawing woodsmen

step by wide-eyed step.

Forrest bound

and snug,

wound tight

but somehow natural

in tree-cloaked garb.

and still

in the magic

of the first light

the world

as we were meant to see it:

waking,

alive

without the glare

of a cruel sun,

autumnal

and ripe for the taking.