The Wild Wood (Written October 25)

The Wild Wood


Into the wild wood, where there are

No plates and no stitching. No tears

And no bitching. Only the wind


In the leaves. The chickadees chirping.

Nothing to claim, nothing to rescind.

The trace of an airplane high above


In the blue sky. No entrances

And no exits. The push and shove

Of the crows on the branch of a tree.


The rust-colored mushroom in the green

Tuft of moss. Everything fresh, everything free.

The tamarack by the side of a creek.


Squirrels fretting, owls hooting, deer

Turning. A carpet of pine needles.

The sun through the clouds. No fears.

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