what if we never were alone?

Just past the post,
keep walking. 
Let your neck flex,
eyes raise, and 
lock on a few future
intents.
Have patience. 
Be gracious,
unfazed. 
Then, step away
from devices. 
Let loose 
from disguises and
expect some fatigue;
face to face
is hard 
with all of
this noticing
without
notifications. 

rooted

I am in rut. 

in a groove
so long it’s not 
possible to determine
if I'm following
or being 
followed. 

the sun always
finds me waiting
for it to warm
this tract, 
worn and
winding with edges
soft enough 
to keep
me cradled. 

to keep me safe. 

any
wandering outside,
along the topside, 
is short lived-
I don’t like
to demystify 
for the scrum,
this emotion
of being 
more satisfied
than settled. 

wanderers and
seekers 
pass by,
disturb my leaves,
scuff my stones,
bend and break
my blades of
grass. 

and
all the while
my rabbit sense 
of
predatory presence-
a vibrant florid
hunger for 
escape-
holds me
still.

some see 
oddity
in the way 
I loll 
in the ruffage, 
my hands 
buried deep 
in the loam. 

but to 
my nose and eyes,
a long
measure of the 
proportionate
balance in
clay, sand,
and silt
can only be
achieved
surrounded
in burrow.

gravity both 
pulls me towards 
the ground,
under its
leafy carpet, 
and draws my hands
to my face
to scry
the forest's
pulse.

lattice

the misted air
freezes on my beard.
i can feel 
the crystals stitching
together.
small tugs 
weaving water
against my skin.
the physics of these
molecular agreements
reminds me
that small things
make themselves
known in wonderous
ways.
like the joy 
i get from
winter walks in the
forest,
with my daughter,
that gently pulls
my mouth into
a smile.

hyoid

i keep getting caught in the space between knowing a thing and understanding it. forests are full of reminders of the unseen. of distance between. reminders escaping meaning. like how that woodpecker eyed me before i, he. or how i heard him, before he, me. i drew to him as the echoes varied. high low high low fast slow fast slow. in alternating tones. the pound from his sounds was designed to save him from headaches. like this forest does for me. it separates the mind from the pain. the 'here we go' from the 'again'. but i just had to know more, so i googled for a bit. a woodpecker's skull sits on suspension, has seatbelts to hold its brain in place, and the pace never pecks in the exact same space. peckings had stopped, but were still chased around the green by echoes. and it seemed like the moment was here and everywhere. just like the unseen. suddenly i was two feet from his workspace. interrupting his meal, my eyes fell into his, mid grace. my meaning making started and i believed the bird wanted me closer. he chose here to stay and wait a bit longer. and the longer i stood the clearer it became that actually 'no sir' was his message as he flew off abandoning me there.

stand

what grows 
from a buried 
heart?
a stand 
of spruce
birch oak
in silent
congregation
impart
like elders
leaning in
sharing upstretched
dignity.
bent by wind
clenched by cold
quenched by rain
young and old
maple pine
swapping stories
signaling
forgotten times
and fragile futures.
i imagine
the secret of trees
is that they see
themselves like
a family
in the forest
ensouled
entwined and
buried root
down
still dreaming
in seeds.

less