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As the hiker capers through
an unpainted gallery of birch
logs, the crackling of chipmunks
on sticks carries no weight.
Captured by the sculpted breath
of a grey-lyre like wind-his love
of the trail corresponds to inter
rupted questions: the cadence
of candy apple brown pine cones,
and the moon hiding its migration
within the amber colored glass of
monarch eyes. Yes, the hiker walks
towards unborn steps, since before
his seed heart began pumping in
the silent chamber of the placenta.
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The more times I re-read this the more I see, feel and hear of my beloved woods. Beautiful.